They All Look the Same!

At the University where I am currently a PhD Candidate (ABD) in 20th Century American and English Poetry and Rhetoric, there is a professor whom I will call Professor Dick. I call him this because “Dick” is a diminutive form of his proper first name, and because it’s what his friends and colleagues call him. Prof. Dick is a short (like me), middle-aged (not like me yet), white man (half like me). One time, long ago, as an undergrad at this same institution he nominated one of my essays in his 20th Century Lit class for the big undergraduate “Best Essay of the Year” award, given each year to the undergraduate paper that some elite coven of hoary English profs deem worthy of an award and $400. It won the award. It was about Marianne Moore and “The Steeplejack.” I also wrote papers on Nabokov, Kate Chopin, and, I think, Auden for that class. The Moore paper won. I enjoyed spending the money and drugs and alcohol. Just kidding. Sorta.

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A few years later, a young woman from the East Coast arrived at Oregon to begin work in the English program. She was a short Latina (part Puerto Rican, part Italian, part Colombian). I’m not sure why I mentioned she was short. Perhaps it’s because Professor Dick and I are also short and I mentioned that. Anyway, at a faculty/grad student function, Professor Dick walked up to this woman (who I’ll just have to call my girlfriend, though she wasn’t at the time, and she just recently is now—hey, are you my girlfriend? ) and, mistaking her for the janitor, proceeded to bitch her out for some janitor-related incident.

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This fall, at the annual new grad student faculty meet and greet, Professor Dick walked up to me and, mistaking me for the new Latino English Professor, whom I’ll call Professor DV, began telling me about a wonderful student of his who was taking my “Border Theory” seminar. I have no idea what Border Theory is, and at the time I didn’t know who he was confusing me with. I later learned that it was Professor DV. Needless to say, the situation with Prof. Dick was extremely uncomfortable and all I could say was, “I think you think I’m someone else,” to which he replied, “no I don’t.” At this point I managed to disappear into the crowd. Looking back on the incident, I wish I had played along.

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A few weeks ago, Prof. DV, my girlfriend, and I were sitting on a bench outside our department office. They were chatting about Latino stuff. I was just sitting there. I really really hoped that Prof. Dick would walk by and get confused. “Why are Prof. DV and another guy who appears to be Prof. DV talking to that janitor?”

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All of us folks look alike.

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Once, a Famous Asian American Poet told me that my poetry sucked and that I was out of touch with my Chicano roots. He also insisted that I write about the ghetto. Er, excuse me, the barrio. I’ve never been to the barrio.

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According to Prof. DV, I don’t have Chicano roots. Or, that is, I don’t have to claim them because “Chicano” implies a political commitment to which I am not committed. I am a garden variety Mexican American. That’s fine with me.

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My mother just says, “We’re Mexicans.”

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In the East, I’m told, they do the same thing, but instead they say “We’re Spanish.” Once, a coworker of mine who was from New Jersey referred to me as “Spanish” and I was incredibly offended. I didn’t realize that that was common nomenclature where she was from.

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Where I’m from, I get suspicious when people say “I’m Spanish.” It’s usually what self-hating people of Mexican descent say to disguise their Mexicanness. I’ve known a few of these people, with skin as dark as stained oak, who say, “I’m not Mexican. I’m Spanish.”

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These are the same people who believe that George Bush loves Latinos.

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Once, not long ago, I was accused by an English Professor at SUNY, Delhi, of “using [my] ethnicity to get ahead.” I wasn’t sure what he meant. I’m still not sure. He is a white man and he seems to dislike people who are not like him. He’s a big fan of Martin Luther, who was, as I understand a pretty die-hard anti-Semite.

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My last girlfriend was a beautiful woman, also Latina. I think she went out with me for authenticity reasons. All her previous boyfriends were WASPy. We would have had gorgeous children.

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When I told my brother I was dating this new woman, his first reaction was: “Oh no! Your children will be miniature!” or something like that.

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We all look alike. Every last one of us. And yes, I like tacos. Racist!

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Reminds me of a comic strip I saw. One character offers another character a burrito. The other character says, “Racist!”