I’m at Canters deli and an older man comes up to the two women working the pastry counter.
“Can I get a shot of you two?”
He starts taking pictures on his camera and I start to eavesdrop. The women are funny, coworkers that actually like each other. They share thick accents and between camera snaps the man enquiries on where they’re from. The group laughs together, and the man finally snaps his final picture.
“We’re going to be famous!”
One of the women jabs the other in the side at her joke. The two laugh, deep, warm, and free. Laughs unconcerned with their impressions on those around them. They talk to each other about their days, about the news, their fears, their communities, the conversation sliding to I.C.E. When talking about their fear it’s a mix between seriousness and small stalls in the conversation to comment on different more trivial parts of life. Jumping between detention centers and the best place to get groceries, making sure to not let things get too dark in the deli. I’ve started to notice I.C.E’s presence in every conversation and movement in the people around me. I chew my check thinking about my own immigrant mother and how even if she is here legally it’s not like they’re really checking.
“They’re targeting Latinos, laborers, anyone who looks a bit different.”
The two women continue talking, saying what most LA Latinos are worrying out loud. I am Californian, born, raised, half-breed. A second generation immigrant. This is a problem fundamentally connected to my identity so I should listen, but my friend enters the deli. Once whisked away to our table my thoughts shift. Still focused on LA but much different than the complexities of politics and immigration. Over matching matzah ball soups, we talk about our plans for the night, I’m going to the Troubadour and she on a date with a DJ/model but not in a lame way. No, this boy is more the young successful just helped a prominent comedian score his movie type. This boy is worth the time of pretty LA girls. We talk about love, sex, and the few upcoming plans we have not falling into those categories. We talk about how Israel and Iran are at war. We talk about how annoying it is when our friends hook up with guys and when we ask who, they slyly say a first name, then quickly follow up with, you might know him. Only to then reveal its some up and coming b-lister and we should be oh so jealous. We’re loud and everyone around us is old, scoffing or giving kind reminiscent smiles encouraging our young wild girlishness.
I’ll be home alone a few hours before people start to pop-up to pregame the show. I’ll braid ribbons in my hair to try and engage a bit more in my Latinness even if that’s not the type of Latina I am. I’ll undo them quickly just before my friends arrive, deciding my more typical tackiness works better on a night out. Performing Latinness just to show the world where you stand doesn’t seem right when you’re preparing for a night of cigarettes and bad decisions.
I am much more LA than I am São Paulo. Not that I really know what being São Paulo would mean. Down to what I choose to eat, the company I keep, and the conversations I have, you could guess I am from this city. Yet I have my Latin desire to fit in with that part of myself. I wear Brazil jerseys and pepper Brazilian phrases and Portuguese words into daily life, despite never putting in the effort to really learn the language. Brazilian values but an American attitude and a resentment I wasn’t given that classic “Brazilian body.” When my boyfriend mentions I’m Brazilian to random strangers they look at me before he’s met with comments of how lucky he is because we are known for our sexy promiscuity. We get to laugh about it together and as gross as it is at least it is an association people make with me and my country. Every stereotype I fit into I fight against but also revel in, clawing for any connection to that part of myself. It’s all religion, sexuality, and my mother.
It is my people struggling each day, being brutalized, detained, forced into modern day slavery as a product of a corrupt government and judicial system. I talk about it, I have the fights with family members on my white, American side. I watch the news and am forced to pick and choose what issue to fight for today as there are so many it’s impossible to talk about it all. I work on getting my Brazilian passport renewed in case of a war and then I head to the beach to smoke and swim, and talk who’s wearing what and have you heard that new song. It’s a luxury to switch on how much of your mind has to focus on national issues versus who your friends are seeing. Is it something I should feel guilty for? I don’t know? People so close to me, barely out of reach, are dramatically physically affected each day and I am affected in tears and conversation. Protesting and fighting only to later get dolled up and leave those troubles behind. Does it mean I am not sympathetic to my people? Do I get to call them my people? Do I give up more to stop this cruelty? My mom achieved the American Dream, I am the product. What does that mean I should do?
The world seems to be moving faster than my ability to perceive my reactions to it. I.C.E still rains tyrant over my city. I say mine with much more confidence than I could my country Brazil, then I’d want to say my country America. I wish I could just be a simple young girl, but I don’t think those ever existed.
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