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Mexican-Americans search for their 'Homelands' and find themselves

Ruben Navarrette Jr. on

SAN DIEGO -- Alfredo Corchado is messing with my head, forcing me to think hard about something I had neatly packed away: what it means to be Mexican-American. What are friends for if not to turn your world upside down?

As a reporter -- currently for The Dallas Morning News, and earlier at The El Paso Herald-Post and The Wall Street Journal -- Corchado has always been a good storyteller. But when he began writing books, he had to learn to tell his own story. He has become good at that, too.

Corchado's engaging new book -- "Homelands: Four Friends, Two Countries, and the Fate of the Great Mexican-American Migration" -- explores the complicated landscape of what he calls "Mexico in the United States."

I know this place. I visit it often with the help of an adorable guide: my wife.

There came the day when -- exasperated at the extent of my assimilation -- she demanded to know: "Exactly what kind of Mexican are you?" With a strong dose of snark, I responded: "The American kind!"

That's me. Mexican-American. The "Mexican" half humbly asks that you accept the hyphen; the "American" half is ornery, so it doesn't care either way.

 

Making a Mexican-American is like making mole. Muchos ingredients: insecurity about our Spanish, feeling "Mexican" in America but "American" in Mexico, annoyance with a homeland that drove out our Mexican ancestors but now welcomes our American dollars when we go south of the border on vacation.

It's all Greek to my wife, who was born in Guadalajara and came to the United States legally as a child. She considers herself a Mexican living in the United States.

Our kids play a game we call "Parental Identity Crisis." Ask them: "What's daddy?" They'll stammer: "He's from California but his grandpa was from Mexico. His parents were born in the United States. So he's American?" Then ask them: "What's mommy?" And they'll fire back: "Oh, she's Mexican!"

According to Corchado, my wife is also my "better 7/8." It's a classification she earned years ago when my friend - who was born in Durango, Mexico - met her and decided that a mere 50 percent was not a large enough fraction.

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