Hottest day of the year

Yesterday afternoon was by far the hottest day of the year. In the morning, it seemed very nice and my daughter and I had breakfast under the umbrella in the backyard. Our relaxing spread of food and Sunday paper dashed into the mid-day scorching heat and inside the house we went. Luckily, the house somehow retains cool temperatures despite the oven that was protesting its way outside.

After a breezy run to the library and Ikea we returned to the house for a light snack. While finishing up last minute details for a school report, playing games and just taking it easy I contemplated a yummy dinner; preferably for eating outdoors. Ambitious and energetic, I declared to make taco salad, a wonderful alternative to tacos that my Dad used to make before he passed; a story that was passed down to me from my mother and older sister. Around three o’clock I headed up to the grocery store for fresh ingredients and bargain sales.

Born and raised in Walnut Creek, I have no problem with the heat. I remember those long hot days in the classrooms where the teacher turned off the lights and had all the students put our heads down. It was then that I learned how making fans out of wet paper towels used more energy, thus making us hotter than necessary. All I could think about was jumping into the pool at Heather Farms. I had been thoroughly trained to avoid cooked bike seats and anything metal with the forgiving fabric of my clothes. We didn’t have air conditioning either at our house so it was best to get out of it and return once the sun had set. Even then the oven was still cooling down. If I wasn’t at the park or pool I was in the library enjoying a good read.


As I’m driving up Alcatraz Ave. with the top down and KPFA’s Latin Jazz blaring from the radio, I’m loving the blistering heat. It reminds me of vacationing. Mexico. Puerto Vallerta. Everything comes alive under the sun.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I headed inside the grocery store with list and coupons raring to go. Surprisingly, the store was packed with university students and families but nevertheless I was out of there in a flash. While pushing my cart into the parking lot I noticed two beautiful Huskies eyeing me from the hatchback of a parked Suburu. I love Huskies but would never have one because their thick coats are too much to clean up around the house. As if they could hear me, 'Shouldn’t you guys be in Alaska or something?' I then suddenly realized that they were panting and there wasn’t one cracked window. Even if there was, those dogs did not need to be trapped in that car. I put my groceries in my trunk and scooted my cart back to the store front and asked to speak to a manager inside. When she appeared out of the crowd of shoppers and checkout stands I asked her, 'Can I show you something?'

Five years ago I called the police, when two young college students who stood by in shock couldn’t, because a mother had left her toddler and baby in a parked car on the hottest day of that year. Whether done maliciously or without intent to harm, it behooves us all to act immediately when we see something drastically wrong. Five years ago, before the police arrived, I opened that car door.

Years ago when I first started baking in my Grandmother’s kitchen, I was such an amateur. Inspired by who knows what, I’d flutter around the oven like a fairy never touching the ground. It was so romantic to be baking with old fashion appliances circa 1950. By the time the cookie dough was in the oven baking, I’d get distracted by a toddler or a phone call and forget all about my masterpiece. Never using a timer, in the end, all I’d have left were crispy cookies blackened on the bottom. I’d only eat them out of pride. Having children and pets is a voyage in sacrifice and humility. They simply come first.

By the time I arrived home from my trip to the store I succumbed to my woes of the animal neglect and human neglect varieties and instead of taco salad we dined on hot dogs.

The problem with black and white

The problem with categorizing people as Black or White is that it robs them of their ethnic identity. It is a character polarizing the United States American’s as a competitive people based on color. In many ways, it’s a commodity which elbows out distinguished groups and generalizes other ones, also. How do Asian-Americans fit into the color scheme? Furthermore, does the term Asian-American even give an accurate picture of a group of people?

Although it is true that many African-Americans are not privy to an obvious direct link to their ethnic roots, it is fair to say if their surname is of English, Dutch, French or Spanish origins then they probably are descendents of the United States African Slave Trade or the Atlantic Slave Trade. Many African-American friends of mine have English or Dutch surnames which as a child differentiated my identity from them. Often I would have to explain my ethnic heritage which was no more estranged as theirs but certainly of a different path to the United States. At times, this separation made me feel isolated and I found myself wondering why I wasn’t embraced like other African-Americans. Of course, as a child there were understandable reasons why other children immediately associated my ethnicity with Mexico because it is the closest Spanish influenced country near my home state California. However, even as an adult exploring life through my college years, living on the east coast there were numerous opportunities where my ethnicity was misconstrued into some distorted perversity which I had to demand clarification. Once, a professor sneered at me through her disposition after a pleasant walk to campus when she learned my given name Mercedez. Although my name is an authentic Spanish name it is widely identified as a luxury vehicle. Beyond that, the story of German engineer Karl Benz was that his wife was Spanish and upon completing his automotive design he decided to name the car after their daughter Mercedes Benz. The professor scoffed at the astounding rate which African-Americans, at the time, were naming their children after expensive inanimate objects. Much to my annoyance, I explained my ethnic heritage.

Another professor met me with similar discontent even though I shared early on my ethnic heritage. The professor presumed that because of my knowledge of Spanish descent I was born predetermined for success. Again, not only was I separated from others because of my ethnicity there was a huge gap of understanding where the U.S. African Slave Trade was concerned. What was the difference between a U.S. slave and a Caribbean one? The climate, the food, the industries, the culture but at the end of the day they were both still slaves. Perhaps the Spanish were less harsh than the Southern United States Masters but that gave me no more information about which African country my folks descended from.

I have survived intense conversations with Hispanic friends who chime that their voice is not included with identities based on color. It has come to my awareness however that the color hierarchy of African-Americans over the 20th Century is parallel to Hispanics. Where in the United States circa 1950’s dark complexion Negros were the most undesirable and light complexion Negros were more favorable the same was true for Hispanics. Although slavery had been legally abolished by that time, social pillars distinguishing light and dark were still intact perhaps not intentionally but nevertheless impacting grand social themes personally and collectively. What seems to sneak from debate is how similar Native Americans and some of the dark complexion Central and South Americans look.

When I think about the color spectrum of people and how it dictates how their viewed, with or without their permission, my feeling is their given and surname are really strong indicators of their ethnic identity. That is why African-Americans have had such an enormous challenge figuring out who they wanted to be because it was never established with dignity; a basic human right. If a person has a Jewish surname their basic ethnic heritage is evident regardless of how they have chosen to steer their life. If a person has an English surname but clearly is of African descent it may be no wonder why that person would want to rebel from anything remotely related to the English descendents as well as present European or Caucasian influences. Even if their perspective is myopic, given the messy nature of ethnic identities who can blame anyone for feeling contempt? Needless to say, there is plethora of people in the U.S. where it is impossible to know by name or looks what their ethnic heritage is. But then there are people still that you can guesstimate.

What I love about it all is how people are affected by their regions, culture, education and friendships or better yet how individuals can impact their regions, culture, education and friendships. It fascinates me to learn about people’s personality and character but to know the lingering background of their family like a halo to an angel. For me, I have always held onto my own ethnicity as a way to understand who I am and what I like. Certainly, I’ve been a person who has experienced how unique one can be given all the complexities of being human. It’s nice to know that though I’m a human being, being human about all the many layering patterns of life in the United States of America has not impeded my freedom to be me.