DONALD TRUMP, LIKE A BRASSY, BITTER, LEECH, is the spittle-speckled sound stuck to people’s pursing lips. Here he comes again, with his hot air blown-back clown show car horn persona. Here comes the (White) Horse Race, thundering up stink and sour so many are expected to inhale—and cheer on!
A good portion of your timeline says “Ugh, can we stop talking about this idiot,” while many others jeer at him with the joy we feel kicking a schoolyard bully in the virtual nuts. I’m not above joining the latter group, but it’s not so much about his lurch toward the White House. For some of us out here, it’s a very personal attack, to dredge up this anti-Mexican sentiment that—let’s be honest—most Americans generally agree with on a gut level, but know they should not speak in polite company.
But we know. We Xicanos, Xicanas, Chicanxs, y Xican@s; we Mexican Americans. Whether we call ourselves “Latino” to escape the sting that has hunted us since birth, or we don’t mention it at all, or we pass as “Italian”–or just don’t bring it up when possible–we know how white America feels about us. Every song or movie involving Mexico in the USA has to do with a few things. Lawlessness (just ask Christopher Cross, whose song Ride Like the Wind I loved as a child simply because he passed the low bar of publicly uttering the word “Mexico” without sneering); Knives; Crime; Disease, or just a general lowness…a taste you spit out fast if you find it on your tongue. A subject to be avoided, and a people to be avoided.