Racist, xenophobic rhetoric and border hysteria have been with us in the Southwest since the time the United States appropriated the territory. Straightaway Americans loathed Mexicans. Unsurprisingly, that sentiment remained rooted. Here is an excerpt from my book that recounts my first encounter with in-your-face racism.
“GO BACK TO MEXICO!” the enraged white woman bellowed at my mother as I stood next to her. The epithet erupted during a front yard verbal altercation after the woman’s sons had beaten my younger brother with sticks. The attack had been unprovoked, and so my mother approached the woman to discuss the incident. Tall, obese, and imposing, the woman gruffly denied her sons had done anything. My mom heatedly replied that the woman ought to reprimand her kids.
Hours after the argument ended without any resolution, I thought about the demand that she “go back to Mexico.” It struck me as bizarre and ugly. What did it have to do with kids fighting? Why should my mother go to a foreign country?
“You go back to Germany or wherever the hell you’re from!” my mother had shot back, leaving the woman sputtering.
We had moved to Pacoima, California, in 1958, two years before the incident, just as I prepared to enter the third grade. Until then, we lived in Lincoln Heights, a largely Mexican neighborhood in Los Angeles. “The Heights” is the oldest of the city’s neighborhoods, populated since the 1830s, when it was part of Mexico.
We had taken possession of a brand new home in Pacoima, in the far-flung San Fernando Valley. It was our first time living among white people. Years later, I learned that real estate agents had tried to steer my parents away from the new subdivision, suggesting that we might find other Mexican or African American neighborhoods more to our liking.
My father, David Chavira, born in Sierra Blanca, Texas, was a World War II veteran who immediately understood that the agents did not want to admit us into the lily-white subdivision. It was an act of blatant racism. After he angrily complained to VA Home Loan officials, my parents bought the house they wanted.
A few days after we moved in, relatives on my mother’s side visited from El Paso. Among them were three of our cousins and my aunt, who had deep brown skin. Soon, one of the real estate agents came calling to gently inquire if black people were visiting. It seemed almost incredible that our house guests would be anyone’s concern. But this was 1958, and blacks near whites were cause for alarm. My parents replied that they were Mexicans, just duskier than most. That satisfied the agent.
“Never forget, this is Mexico,” my father often said. “The Gringos stole California and about half of Mexico. We were always here. We were never foreigners; the Gringos were. Don’t let anyone make you feel that you don’t belong here. Always be proud of being Mexican, and never say you’re Spanish.” Mexicans were so stigmatized that some pathetically claimed to be Spaniards. Evidently, Spaniards were viewed as cultured and racially palatable.
Ricardo Chavira Chicano 