What Got Me Started Writing The Way That I Do?

A Return To Aztlan

   “Oye!  Senor hablas Espanol?” an elderly woman asked.  Politely, I responded, “No, pero comprendo y hablo poco.” She appeared angry or disappointed and said that I was a “disgrace to my culture” and young people should never forget where they came from.  I was young, and very self-conscious, yet now that memory fits well in my later life.  I understand and speak more Spanish, and I know where I came from.  Still, many people consider me a “coconut.”
    My definition of a coconut is someone besieged by two cultures clashing within oneself.  Although I descend from Mexican blood, I was raised in an Anglo world.  I have good parents who focused on family values, keeping alive a traditional marriage they never saw in their parents.  I was raised around children of all colors and was too young to know or care about the difference between the Raza around me and the cartoons on TV: I was “materialized” in an American world.
    One day, I saw a reflection-a Chicano in the mirror.  He said to me, “A coconut is a seed to produce new life.  Once planted, a seed sprouts roots to gain a strong foundation from the earth.  With power of the sun, growth continues as life expands towards the sky.” The Chicano continued, “Coconut, you are a seed.  Find your roots, then you will find new growth.  Use your mind to express to the world who you are.  You are Chicano.”
    I said, “OK, yo soy Chicano.”  “Oye!  Menso, where are you going?” the reflection asked.  “To the library to find my roots,” I replied.  “You are heading in the wrong direction,” he said.  “Look within yourself and your family.  Understand how you became you.  Where did your parents come from, and what were their struggles?  Where did your grandparents and great-grandparents live, and how did they suffer?  How did they come to America, and why?”
    And there was more: “To know is not to wonder.  To reach back in time is to understand the progress and journey of oneself, family, heritage and culture.  Only you can carry that heritage and culture as a tradition.”
    “OK,” I said, “Since you look like me and talk like me, how did you get in my mirror?
    “I am you,” he said.  “Unlock the door and bring us together.  See the Aztlan world, an adventure for those willing to return.”
    Confused, I asked, “Return in time?”
    “No,” he said.  “Return the Chicanismo to La Raza.  Share your knowledge with your people and the rest of the world.  Carve and continue to clear the paths our father set down for us and others to follow.”
    I looked back into the mirror and saw myself and said, “Yo soy Chicano.”  Then, I went outside to see Aztlan.  I saw a bunch of tourists who decided that our Aztlan is a nice place to live.
    I am a Chicano, yet my struggles and path are still with me.  I call out urging all Chicanos to follow.  Let us create a movement of young, mighty, vocal warriors not to take Aztlan back, but to let everyone know that this is the land of our people.
Para Mi Raza, Paz.