I was a snobby kid in kindergarten. I mean I was a almost like a ‘mean’ girl. I ran with the cool kids and we put apple and orange seeds in our ears to prove it. It made us a clique. My girlfriends and I were would walk the playground lifting just the right side of our nose to indicate some other poor classmate was not one of us… There was still lots of 5 year old in me so I wasn’t as nasty as I’m depicting. I was also kind and inclusive. I had friends.
Kindergarten was great. It is the last time I remember feeling whole and confident. So very nice. When I left Blessed Sacrament and made my way to first grade at St. Paul I became Mexican. A whole new ball game…
You see, before that, everyone that I encountered in my small world was just like me. Brown in origin. It wasn’t like that at my new school. My classmates were more on the pale side. So were my mom and one of my sisters but it was years before I made that observation. I don’t know for sure that it was skin color that tipped me off or if someone not too delicately brought my ethnicity to my attention.
For sure in second grade Linda Schaklett told me and Elizabeth that her dad said we had all been baked in ovens. Linda, with her yellow blond hair, blue eyes and enormous freckles had been underbaked. She was raw, it was reported, Elizabeth (I didn’t know she was pure Italian, yet) with her hazel green eyes and beige skin tone was JUST RIGHT. Baked to perfection. I was burnt. There it was. It was the 1960 not too subtle way of informing me that I was Mexican. Ok. Deal with it. More messages came that Mexicans in San Antonio were NOT as good as everyone else. (Talk about karma…). In time I learned everyone else were called Anglos. I’m not sure where the Merys and Karams fit into this scheme. They were Lebanese.
I noticed these things. They stuck with me. Maybe that’s why I later loved Anthropology so much and it came easily to me. The more I heard about San Antonio Mexicans (just watch the ten o’ clock news, that demographic was portrayed as poor, uneducated, low and criminal) the more Mexican made me feel lousy. I bought the whole enchilada…
And thus was born my lifetime love affair with self pity. THE SILENT KILLER. Poor me. It spread to every minor or major Judyism. As in, anything that made JUDY different from all the rest. Frizzy curly hair, poor me. Not in the first reading group poor me. Too skinny, poor me. I had an entire litany before I left third grade.
All my life I compare and compete. I want to be at least as good and pretty as her. Or as smart. Or funny. Or rich. And it is ALWAYS God’s fault! Why did He make me less than? He didn’t give me the full package. Poor, poor, poor me.
I’m beginning to feel it now the older I get. Feeling sorry for myself, it just makes me an eternal victim. Mexican doesn’t get me anymore. I’m beyond that. Brown and proud. It’s the little slights that God makes that slowly eat at my soul. My day doesn’t go exactly as I demand. I’m let down. Sad. Not fair. I want more. I deserve better. Someone can use the wrong tone of voice and I dive into the pity pot. It seems some days it doesn’t take much. Or am I just more attuned to singing my woes? Do I hear how pathetic my troubles sound. My life long habit is wearing thin.
My cholesterol can get a little on the high side but I manage it. It’s my other silent killer, my self pity that is going to take me down. I’m on it! There is still a little over confident, super hip, happy go lucky, life is as full as I want kindergarten Judy making a comeback. Bye bye self pity. Life is too rich and every moment too precious to waste on you…
My World My Words 