From the LA Times, an article about the semi-forced assimilation of Central American immigrants to the U.S.—both legal and illegal—to Mexican ways of life, especially from the perspective of Salvadorians. It’s quite a powerful story.
Rivera and thousands of other Central and South American immigrants have left their native countries only to arrive in an American city dominated by Mexicans, who comprise L.A.’s largest Latino group and have access to most of the jobs sought by immigrants. The metropolis drives many to Mexicanize, to degrees big and small, often before they start to Americanize.
Change comes gradually, particularly through speech, as different words take over, intonations fade and verbs are conjugated in new ways. Some immigrants begin to mimic mejicanos even before they leave their homeland. They toy with Mexican curse words and awkwardly bend their accents to blend in as they cross Mexico into the United States.
There’s a scene in the terrific 1983 film El Norte in which a Guatemalan man who wishes to come to the U.S. is being instructed on how to speak proper Mexican Spanish so he’ll appear fit in: “Say it’s a hot day,” the coyote commands him. “Hace calor hoy,” he responds. “No, not like that,” the coyote admonishes, “say it’s a fucking hot day! Mexicans are always saying fuck, fuck fuck.” Expletive misuse can give away your true culture in a heartbeat.
Another such thing is your culinary choices:
Juan Carlos Rivera struggled to keep up his ruse even when the suspicious cook began to quiz him on popular Pueblan food, including Puebla’s specialty, the cemita. “How do you like it?” the cook asked.
“With pineapple,” Rivera said. Little did he know that what Salvadorans knew as caramelized sweet bread, Pueblans knew as a meat and avocado sandwich.
“I knew you weren’t Mexican,” the cook said smugly before running off to tell the manager.
Rivera was convinced he would be fired. But the manager liked his work and let him stay.
For a year, Rivera stuck around, more determined than before to fit in. He studied his co-workers’ accents, their language, their jokes and common expressions. He learned to stomach hot sauce. When the crew went out for beers, he tagged along, looking for the right time to proudly deliver a deep-throated Órale! And when the time came to apply for his second job, he sought the help of a Mexican friend. This time he would say he was from Mexico City. This time, he would learn the menu.
It’s not just food, it’s language—making sure always to use Mexican Spanish instead of Central American regionalisms: litera instead of camarote (”bunk bed”), cinto instead of cincho (”belt”), popote instead of pajia (”straw”), helado instead of sorbete (”ice cream”), papalote instead of pizcucha (”kite”), and, perhaps most damning, always making sure never to slip and say vos instead of tú for the second personal singular pronoun.
“We’re all Latinos,” she said. “The thing that brings us together is that we all speak Spanish. Everybody needs to just get used to it and get along.”
If only cultural assimilation and disappearance could truly be dealt with so easily.
