A friend sent me a subscription to Latina magazine. It was a joke because my maiden name is Spanish, though I have no Spanish blood whatsoever pumping through my veins. My paternal grandfather (that's my dad's dad, in case you're tired and don't want to think that through) was my father's step-father, and his family came from Spain, stopped in Mexico for one generation, and then moved on to California in the early part of the 1900s. If my grandpa hadn't adopted my father, my maiden name would have been a lot more Irish.
Since I was getting the magazine, I figured I'd read it since it isn't in Spanish (I speak no Spanish. I speak a few -- like, three -- words in French and German and I remember a small smattering of Latin from high school, but I am definitely a mono-lingual gal). It's kind of eye-opening for me, a white girl living in the United States. For one thing, while most Americans can trace their roots to other countries and are proud of those roots, it seems to be a little more pronounced with the Hispanic and Latin population. Every single person who writes for or is featured in this magazine gets a blurb that identifies her roots, whether they're Cuban, Mexican, Brazilian, Columbian, etc., etc. I have never seen that in any other magazine, and that's probably because so many of us are mutts. I would have to list my Swedish, English, Scottish, Irish, early American revolutionary and Dixie South lineage, which is the abridged list.
That's what has struck me most, this strong identity with the Old Country, whichever one it is. When my Swedish great-grandfather bought himself a first class ticket to the U.S. in 1912 at the tender age of 15 (he had his inheritance and he had heard that first class passengers didn't have to go through Ellis Island, where he would surely have been sent back to Sweden because of his age), he melted into the roiling masses of New York and never looked back. Somehow, he found his way to Minnesota, which still has a strong Scandinavian population, married himself a Swedish girl, and made himself a millionaire through sheer grit and hard work. I met him a few times when I was a little girl, but I didn't know much about him until I read his autobiography, and his autobiography didn't talk much about his wives (two of them) and children. That's regrettable. I have no idea if they maintained any Swedish traditions at all. His first wife died young and he remarried, and I'm not sure if his second wife was Swedish or not. Certainly no Swedish or Scottish (or Spanish) traditions were practiced in our home when I was a kid, and I was supremely ignorant of the well-beloved traditions my Swedish mission companion held dear.
But, see, it didn't matter all that much to us. We were American. Our roots were precious, but they weren't to be clung to. That was the mindset of that era, though, during the waves of emmigration to the United States in the early 1900s: you move here, find people who speak your language and share your culture, and then try to be as American as possible so your kids will be better off than you are. I think the mindset is different now, or maybe for some cultures it has never really changed. I pass no judgment here. I merely write what I have observed. It's one magazine in a thousand, but it's been an interesting thing to read and think about.
If reading this magazine would impart to me the ability to move my hips like they were oiled, I'd read that magazine every single day. It would SO help my Zumba moves!
1 comment:
Thanks for this post. This is so true. I am not considered latin, but being italian I know that our culture is high impact and that pride tends to stay after many generations, and thus even if your ancestors came over a century ago, you are still considered italian. Strange.
Also, half a century ago, italian immigrant families forced their kids to speak english. They wanted them to integrate. Nowadays, like in my family, we force them to speak italian.
I'm rambling. :) Thanks again for the post.
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