'You Ain’t a Real Mexican' or …

Being raised in a mainly Mexican neighborhood with a dark brown Dad and a very white Mom makes for some good neighborhood gossip or at least contributes to some widespread cultural confusion among the locals. Everyone wants to be the one who figures you out, right? Like they cracked the code on your identity. Well, I think we should head back to the very beginning and see how this multi-culti mix had it’s origins.

In the Beginning or Cultural Fashion Tip #1 : Bow Ties Rock !!

I was baptized in Kindergarten at St. Gabriel’s church on West Vernor Highway in Detroit. I remember how cool I felt with my hair slicked back with Brylcreem, standing tall in my ironed white shirt , tucked deep into my single-pleated black slacks , Sunday socks, too. To complete the look, a white-stripe bowtie was gently clipped into my collar as I slipped my feet into my highly buffed, Sunday best shoes . Mom made sure I didn’t muss my hair as I carefully placed my arms in a new , beige trench coat. Damn, I looked good ! So fine ! I’m not sure the 1967 Detroit fashion scene was quite ready for this.

My brothers and I lined up at the baptismal font as Father Anthony Bologna smiled and welcomed me, Roy, Valentino , Mom , Dad and our Godparents Chicho and Esther. I wish I could tell you what it felt like the moment Fr Bologna splashed my forehead with holy water; I’d be lying if I told you I remember the words spoken. Instead, I remember the quiet walk home. I couldn’t stop looking at the tops of my black, shiny shoes as we stepped off the curb and crossed the street to the block long walk-ups where we lived. Our bolted door squeaked open and all three of us boys ran up the stairs. Grandpa Joe was at the top of the stairs patting his belly and laughing. (He was always patting his belly, it seemed.) We pushed past Grandpa and headed right for the dining room table all set for dinner. I was thinking we’d be honoring the Polish side of my family by serving stuffed cabbage rolls and sauerkraut with mashed potatoes and gravy but it didn’t smell like that. Nor did it smell anything remotely like enchiladas with mole , food from my father’s side of the family. Who’s in charge here ? I’m not sure who’s in that kitchen. The smell of Sammy’s pizza filtered into all my childhood dreams because its ovens were right below us, just two doors down. Were we having pizza for dinner ? Somebody tell me , please !!!