Reflexion: Staying true to one's identity

Since my arrival to Mexico, some of my writings have been filled with impersonal, vague messages. Nevertheless, when I reflect upon the day at nighttime, I actually ponder more than impersonal thoughts. I really do reflect upon more than the next morning’s weather forecast.

During my teenage years, when it seemed like everyone questioned my every motive or aspiration, I decided to ignore the negativity and pessimism. When I was told that it was impossible, I proved that it was possible. When I was told that my dreams would remain a mere faction of my imagination, I made them manifest and become a reality.

The naysayers, pessimists, or henceforth called “haters,” gave me inspiration. [They unknowingly used reverse psychology.] Whenever they spat upon my ambitions and gave me a challenge, I achieved those things and proved them wrong.

When quasi-statistics said that an inner-city black male is likely to be a dropout, illiterate, hooked on drugs, selling drugs, dead, or otherwise a casualty of the reality of my society, I dared to fight the odds. I refused to succumb to the oppression. I will continue to fight the odds and fight for what I know is right until the day I die. The haters in society will just have to remain in a state of hatred.

I occasionally get frustrated when I see my friends and peers consuming the poison of society. They actually internalize the garbage in the media. They allow the television to dictate their appearance or the radio to dictate their vocabulary. They allow individuals with high levels of influence to “cap” or place a limit on their aspirations. They are tricked into belittling, oppressing, and killing themselves. They are victims of their society. They wear invisible shackles.

Meanwhile, I have noticed a similar, less recognizable trend in my own life. In the past, I have easily given in to assimilation in the United States. In Mexico, I have had to adapt to a certain degree, but I have not had to deny my heritage and culture. I can “rock” the ‘fro or cornrows without being hassled for looking like a gangster. I can speak “Ebonics” to the few English speakers without being told that it is “bad” grammar or “uneducated” speech. How can someone tell me that the dialect that I speak within my home is wrong?

In the U.S., I would wear long-sleeves and run to escape the sun, but here I have accepted my complexion and any tan that comes with it. In the U.S., I would get a haircut biweekly or try to find hair chemicals, but here I can celebrate any naps. In the U.S., I learned to reject Africa as my “motherland,” but here I have had positive discussions about it. [In spite of heavy racial mixing and a detachment of several centuries, the questioning of others has inspired me to at least learn about the continent.]

Mexico has taught me more than Spanish and hot dance moves. Amongst many other things, I have gained a greater appreciation for my own culture and heritage. I have a respect for all cultures, but I cannot be expected to assimilate into them all. No matter if I am on the block in the hood or on the sidewalks of a university, in Detroit or Monterrey, eating cornbread or corn tortillas, I can only be who I am. I can only be me.