Wednesday, August 15, 2012


Seen on the Purple Line to Linden at about 8:50 a.m. 

Manuel has always struggled with the language of his ancestors. It’s almost as though learning English in school purged his blood of his Mexican heritage. He looks Latino, but he feels like his body is merely a shell for a Caucasian American male. When he can’t understand something his relatives are saying, he can see the pain and doubt simmering in his mother’s pupils. ¿En verdad es mi hijo? 

Now Manuel is trying to work his way through La Muerte de Artemio Cruz, but the Spanish paragraphs are like thorny briar patches—his gaze gets all tangled up and the words sting his eyes. He closes the book and stares out the window, wondering where to search for his lost identity. 

Many thanks to my wonderful friend Felipe for helping me with the Spanish. I can do reasonably well with French and Chinese, but my Spanish is virtually nonexistent. I'll have to learn someday. 

I am sleepy. Story of my life. French couchsurfers arrive tomorrow. Gogo show with The Fortunate Sons on Friday. Hope your life is as fun and as busy as mine!  

1 comment:

  1. Hey - this is how I feel about being Asian! Except I don't have any Asian relatives to make me feel ashamed for not feeling Asian!

    Exclamation points!

    Also, you def should learn some Spanish, because it's super fun.


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