Traditionally, America has been an east-west country. We have read our history, right to left across the page. We were oblivious of Canada. We barely noticed Mexico, except when Mexico got in the way of our westward migration, which we interpreted as the will of God, “manifest destiny.”
In a Protestant country that believed in rebirth (the Easter promise), land became our metaphor for possibility. As long as there was land ahead of us–Ohio, Illinois, Nebraska–we could believe in change; we could abandon our in-laws, leave disappointments behind, to start anew further west. California symbolized ultimate possibility, future-time, the end of the line, where loonies and prophets lived, where America’s fads necessarily began.
Nineteenth-century real estate developers and 20th-century Hollywood moguls may have advertised the futuristic myth of California to the rest of America. But the myth was one Americans were predisposed to believe. The idea of California was invented by Americans many miles away.
Only a few early voices from California ever warnedagainst optimism. Two decades after California became American territory, the conservationist John Muir stood at the edge of California and realized that America is a finite idea: We need to preserve the land, if the dream of America is to survive. Word of Muir’s discovery slowly traveled backward in time, from the barely populated West (the future) to the crowded brick cities of the East Coast (the past).
I grew up in California of the 1950s, when the state was filling with people from New York and Oklahoma. Everyone was busy losing weight and changing hair color and becoming someone new. There was, then, still plenty of cheap land for tract houses, under the cloudless sky.
The 1950s, the 1960s–those years were our golden age. Edmund G. “Pat” Brown was governor of optimism. He created the University of California system, a decade before the children of the suburbs rebelled, portraying themselves as the “counterculture.” Brown constructed freeways that permitted Californians to move farther and farther away from anything resembling an urban center. He even made the water run up the side of a mountain.
By the 1970s, optimism was running out of space. Los Angeles needed to reinvent itself as Orange County. Then Orange County got too crowded and had to reinvent itself as North County San Diego. Then Californians started moving into the foothills or out to the desert, complaining all the while of the traffic and of the soiled air. And the immigrants!
Suddenly, foreign immigrants were everywhere–Iranians were buying into Beverly Hills; the Vietnamese were moving into San Jose; the Chinese were taking all the spaces in the biochemistry courses at UCLA. And Mexicans, poor Mexicans, were making hotel beds, picking peaches in the Central Valley, changing diapers, even impersonating Italian chefs at Santa Monica restaurants.
The Mexicans and the Chinese had long inhabited California. But they never resided within the golden myth of the state. Nineteenth-century California restricted the Chinese to Chinatowns or to a city’s outskirts. Mexicans were neither here nor there. They were imported by California to perform cheap labor, then deported in bad economic times.
The East Coast had incorporated Ellis Island in its myth. The West Coast regarded the non-European immigrant as doubly foreign. Though Spaniards may have colonized the place and though Mexico briefly claimed it, California took its meaning from “internal immigrants”–Americans from Minnesota or Brooklyn who came West to remake their parents’ version of America.
But sometime in the 1970s, it became clear to many Californians that the famous blond myth of the state was in jeopardy. (“We are sorry to intrude, senor, we are only looking for work.”) Was L.A. “becoming” Mexican?
Latin Americans arrived, describing California as “el norte.” The “West Coast” was a finite idea; el norte in the Latin American lexicon means wide-open. Whose compass was right?
Meanwhile, with the lifting of anti-Asian immigration restrictions, jumbo jets were arriving at LAX from Bangkok and Seoul. People getting off the planes said about California, “This is where the United States begins.” Californians objected, “No, no. California is where the United States comes to an end–we don’t have enough room for you.” Whose compass was truer?
It has taken two more decades for the East Coast to get the point. Magazines and television stories from New York today describe the golden state as “tarnished.” The more interesting possibility is that California has become the intersection between comedy and tragedy. Foreign immigrants are replanting optimism on California soil; the native-born know the wisdom of finitude. Each side has a knowledge to give the other.
Already, everywhere in California, there is evidence of miscegenation–Keanu Reeves, sushi tacos, blond Buddhists, Salvadoran Pentecostals. But the forces that could lead to marriage also create gridlock on the Santa Monica freeway. The native-born Californian sits disgruntled in traffic going nowhere. The flatbed truck in front of him is filled with Mexicans; in the Mercedes next to him is a Japanese businessman using a car phone.
There are signs of backlash. Pete Wilson has become the last east-west governor of California. In a state founded by people seeking a softer winter and famous internationally for being “laid back,” Californians vote for Proposition 187, hoping that illegal immigrants will stay away if there are no welfare dollars.
But immigrants are most disconcerting to California because they are everywhere working, transforming the ethos of the state from leisure to labor. Los Angeles is becoming a vast working city, on the order of Hong Kong or Mexico City. Chinese kids are raising the admission standards to the University of California. Mexican immigrant kids are undercutting union wages, raising rents in once-black neighborhoods.
Californians used to resist any metaphor drawn from their state’s perennial earthquakes and floods and fires. Now Californians take their meaning from natural calamity. People turn away from the sea, imagine the future as existing backward in time.
“I’m leaving California, I’m going to Colorado.”
“I’m headed for Arizona.”
After hitting the coastline like flies against glass, we look in new directions. Did Southern California’s urban sprawl invent NAFTA? For the first time, Californians now talk of the North and the South–new points on our national compass.
“I’ve just bought a condo in Baja.”
“I’m leaving California for Seattle.”
“I’m moving to Vancouver. I want someplace cleaner.”
“Go North, young man.”
Puerto Ricans, Mexicans: Early in this century we were immigrants. Or not immigrants exactly. Puerto Ricans had awakened one day to discover that they suddenly lived on U.S. territory. Mexicans had seen Mexico’s northern territory annexed and renamed the southwestern United States.
We were people from the South in an east-west country. We were people of mixed blood in a black and white nation. We were Catholics in a Protestant land. Many millions of us were Indians in an east-west country that imagined the Indian to be dead.
Today, Los Angeles is the largest Indian city in the United States, though Hollywood filmmakers persist in making movies about the dead Indian. (For seven bucks, you can see cowboys slaughter Indians in the Kevin Costner movie–and regret it from your comfortable chair.) On any day along Sunset Boulevard you can see Toltecs and Aztecs and Mayans.
Puerto Ricans, Mexicans–we are the earliest Latin American immigrants to the United States. We have turned into fools. We argue among ourselves, criticize one another for becoming too much the gringo or maybe not gringo enough. We criticize each other for speaking too much Spanish or not enough Spanish. We demand that politicians provide us with bilingual voting ballots, but we do not trouble to vote.
Octavio Paz, the Mexican writer, has observed that the Mexican-American is caught between cultures, thus a victim of history–unwilling to become a Mexican again, unable to belong to the United States. Michael Novak, the United States writer, has observed that what unites people throughout the Americas is that we all have said goodbye to our motherland. To Europe. To Africa. To Asia. Farewell!
The only trouble is: Adios was never part of the Mexican-American or Puerto Rican vocabulary. There was no need to turn one’s back on the past. Many have traveled back and forth, between rivals, between past and future, commuters between the Third World and First. After a few months in New York or Los Angeles, it would be time to head “home.” After a few months back in Mexico or Puerto Rico, it would be time to head “home” to the United States.
We were nothing like the famous Ellis Island immigrants who arrived in America with no expectation of return to the “old country.” In a nation that believed in the future, we were a puzzle.
We were also a scandal to Puerto Rico and Mexico. Our Spanish turned bad. Our values were changing–though no one could say why or how exactly. “Abuelita” (grandmother) complained that we were growing more guarded. Alone.
There is a name that Mexico uses for children who have forgotten their true address: “pocho.” The pocho is the child who wanders away, ends up in the United States, among the gringos, where he forgets his true home.
The Americas began with a confusion about maps and a joke about our father’s mistake. Columbus imagined himself in a part of the world where there were Indians.
We smile because our 15th-century “papi” thought he was in India. I’m not certain, however, that even today we know where in the world we live. We are only beginning to look at the map. We are only beginning to wonder what the map of the hemisphere might mean.
Latin Americans have long complained that the gringo, with characteristic arrogance, hijacked the word “American” and gave it all to himself–“the way he stole the land.” I remember, years ago, my aunt in Mexico City scolding me when I told her I came from “America.” Pocho! Didn’t I realize that the entire hemisphere is America? “Listen,” my Mexican aunt told me, “people who live in the United States are norteamericanos.”
Well, I think to myself–my aunt is now dead, God rest her soul–I wonder what she would have thought a couple of years ago when the great leaders–the president of Mexico, the president of the United States, the Canadian prime minister–gathered to sign the North American Free Trade Agreement. Mexico signed a document acknowledging that she is a North American.
I predict that Mexico will suffer a nervous breakdown in the next 10 years. She will have to check into the Betty Ford Clinic for a long rest. She will need to determine just what exactly it means that she is, with the dread gringo, a norteamericana.
Canada, meanwhile, worries about the impact of the Nashville music channel on its cable TV; Pat Buchanan imagines a vast wall along our southern flank; and Mexican nationalists fear a Clinton bailout of the lowly peso.
We all speak of North America. But has anyone ever actually met a North American? Oh, there are Mexicans. And there are Canadians. And there are so-called Americans. But a North American?
I know one.
Let me tell you about him–this North American. He is a Mixteco Indian who comes from the Mexican state of Oaxaca. He is trilingual. His primary language is the language of his tribe. His second language is Spanish, the language of Cortes. Also, he has a working knowledge of U.S. English, because, for several months of the year, he works near Stockton, Calif.
He commutes over thousands of miles of dirt roads and freeways, knows several centuries, two currencies, two sets of hypocrisy. He is a criminal in one country and an embarrassment to the other. He is pursued as an “illegal” by the U.S. border patrol. He is preyed upon by Mexican officers who want to shake him down because he has hidden U.S. dollars in his shoes.
In Oaxaca, he lives in a 16th-century village, where his wife watches blond Venezuelan soap operas. A picture of la Virgen de Guadalupe rests over his bed. In Stockton, there is no Virgin Mary, only the other Madonna–the material girl.
He is the first North American.
A journalist once asked Chou En-lai, the Chinese premier under Mao Zedong, what he thought of the French Revolution. Chou En-lai gave a wonderful Chinese reply: “It’s too early to tell.”
I think it may even be too early to tell what the story of Columbus means. The latest chapter of the Columbus saga may be taking place right now, as Latin American teenagers with Indian faces violate the U.S. border. The Mexican kids standing on the line tonight between Tijuana and San Diego–if you ask them why they are coming to the United States of America, they will not say anything about Thomas Jefferson or The Federalist Papers. They have only heard that there is a job in a Glendale dry cleaner’s or that some farmer is hiring near Fresno.
They insist: They will be returning to Mexico in a few months. They are only going to the United States for the dollars. They certainly don’t intend to become gringos. They don’t want anything to do with the United States, except the dollars.
But the months will pass, and the teenagers will be changed in the United States. When they go back to their Mexican village, they will no longer be easy. They will expect an independence and an authority that the village cannot give them. Much to their surprise, they will have been Americanized by the job in Glendale.
For work in the United States is our primary source of identity. There is no more telling question we Americans ask one another than “What do you do?” We do not ask about family or village or religion. We ask about work.
The Mexican teenagers will return to Glendale.
Mexicans, Puerto Ricans–most of us end up in the United States, living in the city. Peasants end up in the middle of a vast modern metropolis, having known only the village, with its three blocks of familiar facades.
The arriving generation is always the bravest. New immigrants often change religion with their move to the city. They need to make their peace with isolation, so far from relatives. They learn subway and bus routes that take them far from home every day. Long before they can read English, they learn how to recognize danger and opportunity. Their lives are defined by change.
Their children or their grandchildren become, often, very different. The best and the brightest, perhaps, will go off to college–become the first in their family–but they talk about “keeping” their culture. They start speaking Spanish, as a way of not changing; they eat in the cafeteria only with others who look like themselves. They talk incessantly about “culture” as though it were some little thing that can be preserved and kept in a box.
The unluckiest children of immigrants drop out of high school. They speak neither good English nor Spanish. Some end up in gangs–family, man–“blood.” They shoot other kids who look exactly like themselves. If they try to leave their gang, the gang will come after them for their act of betrayal. If they venture to some other part of the city, they might get shot or they might merely be unable to decipher the freeway exits that speed by.
They retreat to their “turf”–three blocks, just like in their grandmother’s village, where the journey began.
One of the things that Mexico had never acknowledged about my father–I insist that you at least entertain this idea–is the possibility that my father and others like him were the great revolutionaries of Mexico. Pocho pioneers. They, not Pancho Villa, not Zapata, were heralds of the modern age in Mexico. They left for the United States and then they came back to Mexico. And they changed Mexico forever.
A childhood friend of my father’s–he worked in Chicago in the 1920s, then returned one night to his village in Michoacan with appliances for mamasita and crisp dollars. The village gathered round him–this is a true story–and asked, “What is it like up there in Chicago?”
The man said, “It’s OK.”
That rumor of “OK” spread across Michoacan, down to Jalisco, all the way down to Oaxaca, from village to village to village.
Futurists and diplomats talk about a “new moment in the Americas.” The Latin American elite have condos in Miami and send their children to Ivy League schools. U.S. and Canadian businessmen project the future on a north-south graph. But for many decades before any of this, Latin American peasants have been traveling back and forth, north and south.
Today, there are remote villages in Latin America that are among the most international places on earth. Tiny Peruvian villages know when farmers are picking pears in the Yakima valley in Washington state.
I am the son of a prophet. I am a fool. I am a victim of history. I am confused. I do not know whether I am coming or going. I speak bad Spanish. And yet I tell Latin America this: Because I grew up Hispanic in California, I know more Guatemalans than I would if I had grown up in Mexico, more Brazilians than if I lived in Peru. Because I live in California, it is routine for me to know Nicaraguans and Salvadorans and Cubans. As routine as knowing Chinese or Vietnamese.
My fellow Californians complain loudly about the uncouth southern invasion. I say this to California: Immigration is always illegal. It is a rude act, the leaving of home. Immigration begins as a violation of custom, a youthful act of defiance, an insult to the village. I know a man from El Salvador who has not spoken to his father since the day he left his father’s village. Immigrants horrify the grandmothers they leave behind.
Illegal immigrants trouble U.S. environmentalists and Mexican nationalists. Illegal immigrants must trouble anyone, on either side of the line, who imagines that the poor are under control.
But they have also been our civilization’s prophets. They, long before the rest of us, saw the hemisphere whole.