A Semi-truthful Story of a Half-breed

“You love the people that love you.”

 I read a marticle last night – the title “marticle” a result of my newfound political correctness, a correctness I gathered while speaking with my Washington D.C. intern friend; he awoke in me an awareness of my vulgar speak, and unintentional overuse of “loaded words.”  My political correctness now extends into the social network arena. I have come to favor the term “marticle” (slang for Myspace article) for my daily creative expressions of bullshit over the now extinct “blog.”

The author of the marticle enlisted the services of a word I had long forgotten, and one for which I hold a great fondness – and that is half-breed. I will momentarily ditch my political correctness in order to explain the term half-breed, and how, my fellow half-breeds, I became one myself.

Half-breed is a term used to describe anyone who is half of one race and half of another.

I am half white-trash and half illegal immigrant.  Twenty-two years ago my mother, herself self-proclaimed white-trash, met a man by the name of Anthony, nicknamed “Ant.” I still chuckle over the irony in the given name of Ant for a son of illegal immigrants.  I hope that my fellow American readers, and those foreigners well informed on American politics, can too see this irony, and enjoy a hearty chuckle at my expense. Their brief 1984 union produced an 8lb baby on the morning of August 18^th  who they subsequently named Marissa after they witnessed the crying display of her father’s dark genetic footprint. If I had  been born with my mother’s Arian looks, then I was to be Emma. That is not to imply that the names Marissa or Emma distinguish dark from light. It was the reasoning of my young parents, not my far superior college educated self.

The author of the previously mentioned marticle also discussed his feelings of neglect being born a half-breed, and his childhood inability to successfully blend into one color or the other, but instead forced to be the sand colored crayon young color book-age kids leave with the dust bunnies and cat hair under the couch. I can relate to this quarantine in the middle, neither side fully accepting my impure blood. My father’s Mexican family poked the skin of my pale limbs and imitated my poor skills in their native language of Spanish. I must give a quick shout-out to my Nina, who covered my half-breed body with spf30 during the intense heat of California summers, and bestowed  upon me the title of “mija,” the only girl in the family to receive such an honor. My mother’s family of rednecks watched a dark flash darting in between the fair heads of my cousins on holiday celebrations; my unruly curls and big eyes frightening their neighbors.

On order from the powers that be I have been asked to differentiate between the terms redneck and white trash. Let us get our anti-politically correct words straight shall we? I use them interchangeably, but apparently this is a grave mistake on my part. However, I supplied them with my birth certificate and a blood sample, as it turns out my bloodline allows for such improper use. I must also add that the term redneck is most often used by and with Southerners, and not us Yankee folk, but I have presented to the authorities my forged creative license, and thus my misuse has been temporarily allowed.

Yearly trips to Tijuana and Greeley contributed the environmental factor needed to complete the now adult half-breed my genes dictated, and I stand today as a testament to the need for a federal law to ban such mixed breeding, accidental or intentional. Actually, last I checked dark hair, pale skin, and a hacked understanding of Spanish is cool. At least that is what my boyfriend tells me when I am experiencing a level 4 freak-out, a direct consequence of my excessive amour-propre (intelligence bomb), or insecure nature – whichever you prefer – after counting the ever growing number of freckles on my skin.

Scene: A mid-July afternoon in Southern California three adolescents bask in the heat of the day, picking bugs from their knees, tracing circles in the sweat pooling on their bare stomachs, and sipping glasses of lemonade.

Jeremiah: (the eldest cousin) Do you know you are a half-breed?

Marissa: (the naive 12-year old) What is that?

Daniel: (the younger dirty faced brother) It means you are not like us.

(A distant voice yells from the house “Mija”)

Marissa: (the scrawny girl stands with both middle fingers in the air) Fuck off.

And that was the day the younger version of myself used her first f word, and discovered its blissful payoff.