Mexico


BY SABINA LEE

Staff Blogger
Monday, February 25, 2013

When I told my mom that I was going to Mexico over spring break during my senior year in high school, she said, “Be careful,” but the look in her eyes told me, “Don’t run off with a Mexican man.” But honestly, mother: What are the chances that a 17-year-old Asian bookworm, still wearing braces, can woo a suave, bronzed Mexican man sporting aviator sunglasses with a faux hawk in his native tongue?

On my second day in Mexico, I visited Tepoztlán, a charming little village that offers an impressive array of unique ice cream flavors and magnetic healing powers from a neighboring mountain. The best thing about traveling is experiencing minute-by-minute osmosis of a new culture through the smoky scent of questionably sanitary street-side barbequed pork, local disturbing rumors regarding the lush backyard of a little ex-convent, faded pink and yellow store signs from the shameless Mexican sun, and the randomly timed swarms of locals fleeing the wrath of an impatient produce truck. As I strolled along the dusty road to look closely at some hand-painted ceramic skulls at the artisan market, a Mexican man slowly approached me.

“Hola,” he said.

Sirens went off in my head. Was this man going to woo, rob or kidnap me? Disappointingly, my kidnapper was neither chiseled, overtly flirtatious, or faux hawked. In place of aviator sunglasses and a cleavage baring shirt, he wore a bent straw hat and a faded poncho. I guess I should have had lowered my standards.

“Do you speak Spanish?” he asked in Spanish. I said I do.

“Are you from China?” he asked, excitedly. I told him I was born and raised in America, and my parents came from Korea. My parents’ homeland didn’t seem to interest him, evident as he commenced a five-minute ramble about a life-long dream of going to China to learn about its rich culture and how to use chopsticks.

I nodded awkwardly as a weight sunk in my chest. The nerve of this small Mexican man to brush off the land of my ancestors: our culture of careful drapery of bright silk, our cuisine that deliberately balances bold tastes, our social norms that encourage strangers – venders, customers, etc. – to hold friendly conversation. How dare he show no interest for the country of my cultural origin, a land known for its serene white cranes by quiet rice paddies and, as an urban counterpart, skyscrapers of blue glass and black marble floors located within the heart of East Asian global commerce and international relations?

But his dismissive nod when he heard the word “Korea” showed me that he had probably never learned much about Korea. If a random man stopped me on the streets of New Haven and asked if I were Chinese, I probably would have done one of two things: either explain my Korean heritage and buy a pint of ice cream for later that evening or lie and teach him some fake Chinese words that I would have made up on the spot.

I had many similar interactions in the following days, one while I was shopping for avocados in the local supermarket as another father asked me where I am from on his 10-year-old son’s curious behalf and another with a portly Mexican man who, while getting his shoes shined downtown, called “Sayonara” as I walked by.

In Mexico, from my experience, it appears to me that a general curiosity about Asians prevails because there aren’t many Asians in Latin America. Those of us who are fortunate enough to have cultural roots might feel the need to assimilate with the majority; I certainly did, as I spent a few years shunning white rice for whole wheat toast instead (to my parents’ dismay). But au contraire–if we, the minority population familiar with another language, another cuisine, a different categorization and familiarization of music, choose to shun the culture that we or our parents or our ancestors grew up with, how else may we educate our peers who have not been exposed to this culture? How else may our peers understand why we act the way we do based on our cultural morals and un-American upbringing?

Sure, it may be expected of me to participate in UNITY, Yale’s Korean Percussion and Dance troupe because I am Korean. Sure, my roommates may ask me questions about Asian fusion food because they consider me the expert of the bunch. But rather than analyzing whether these assumptions or questions are stereotypical, I don’t focus on what others may think or expect of me. I’d rather act as an intermediary between the Yale community and my Korean-American heritage not only because I enjoy Korean drumming or because I have a nostalgic place in my stomach for Korean cuisine (and any pathetic combination of ingredients prevalent in Korean cuisine, for that matter), but also in order to expose my otherwise ignorant peers to this culture.



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