Wednesday,September 4, 2019 // The Statement 
7B

E

very year in early August, our 
mother would haul my siblings 
and me into our car in the 
stifling heat. The four of us would wait 
for hours in long lines at the international 
bridge, waiting to cross the border from 
Ciudad Juarez, Chihuahua into El Paso.
We lived on the Mexican side of our 
sprawling binational metropolitan area 
and crossed often for groceries and 
shopping, so this was a standard routine 
for us. When our turn finally came, we 
would roll down the windows and sit up 
straight, knowing better than to speak 
out of turn.
“American,” my brother, sister and 
I would say to the border agent, as our 
Mexican mother put her green passport 
next to our blue ones.
We would spend all day hopping from 
store to store, buying No. 2 pencils, tennis 
shoes, new backpacks and pencil cases. 
Our last stop was always the Walmart 
in the Cielo Vista Mall. There, our mom 
would go through her usual weekly 
grocery list, sometimes even agreeing to 
buy us the candy bars we picked at the 
register.
I always knew my blue passport 
granted 
me 
something 
special, 
something everyone else wanted, but not 
all were allowed to possess. My parents 
encouraged me to be proud, to be grateful, 
to take advantage of the opportunities I 
got. And I was.
I felt special. My blue passport allowed 
me to move north when the situation in 
Juarez deteriorated, and granted me 
access to public education. It erased the 
border for me and allowed me to aspire 
to be more.
But now, I am not so sure. The word 
“American” doesn’t feel so safe anymore. 
It doesn’t feel mine.
My family and I aren’t strangers 
to racially charged comments and 
discrimination. Since our move to 
southwest Michigan in 2011, we have 
been told to go back to where we came 
from, asked if we ride donkeys to school, 
given mustard when we asked for coffee 
in a drive thru when a worker claimed 
not to understand my father’s accent, 
even been laughed at for the way we say 
“kitchen” or “jaguar.”
From the beginning, we understood 
that our differences were not completely 
welcome in the place we were to call 
home, and we strove to be included, to 
respect our neighbors and to learn how 
to do things their way.
It wasn’t until a few years ago that 
I started feeling unsure when calling 
myself an American.
I can recall the specific moment on 
television, when their candidate Donald 
Trump claimed Mexico was sending 

“their worst.” Claiming Mexicans were 
criminals, rapists and “bringing drugs” 
was incorrect, but extremely successful.
He got what he wanted.
Hearing those words come out of 
Trump’s mouth as if they were facts 
validated stereotypes about my people. 
There was no distinction. In Trump’s 
words, all Mexicans and Mexican-
Americans, even me and my family, 
were Mexico’s worst.
This particular Latinx stereotype 
was alive and thriving in 2015, and it 
has since grown into full-blown acts 
of hate and violence. What happened 
at the Cielo Vista Walmart of my 
childhood at the beginning of 
August can only be labeled as 
such, an act of hate by a person 
who 
believes 
the 
Latinx 
community is a threat to 
European Americans. 
The word “American” 
slips further and further 
from our reach every 
time someone commits 
a 
crime 
denouncing 
the Latinx community, 
casting us as others in 
a country that would 
not exist without our 
presence and dedication.
Latinx 
people, 
Mexicans in particular, 
populated 
areas 
in 
the Southwest of our 
country before European 
Americans even thought 
of them as viable places 
to live. Those lands in 
New Mexico, California, 
Colorado, Arizona and, 
yes, Texas were cultivated 
and developed by us before 
they became part of the 
United States.
The 
decision 
between 
calling myself Mexican or 
American is not one I should 
have to make.
I am both. I have full rights 
to enjoy all of what this country 
has to offer. I am not stealing 
anything away from “Americans” 
because I am one. 
At this moment, people like 
me, Mexicans and Latinx, are 
being labeled as invaders, and that 
contradicts everything my parents 
told me about the special qualities 
of my blue passport.
A version of this column 
appeared in the Detroit Free 
Press. You can find it on the 
Detroit Free Press website.

BY ANDREA PÉREZ BALDERRAMA, 
MANAGING 
STATEMENT EDITOR

On being Mexican and Ameican

ILLUSTRATION BY SHERRY CHEN

