‘Secret’ Identity Comes as a Shock to Closet Racists

When I started reporting about 10 years ago, one of my first assignments was a story about a group of Torrance residents who were circulating a petition to ban soccer at a nearby public park.

“Why soccer?” my editor asked. “Why not baseball or volleyball?”

I found the answer in short time.

I had only interviewed a few neighbors around the small, sparsely landscaped park when I came to the door of an elderly woman who very politely explained that she signed the petition because she wanted to keep the park free of Latino men who played soccer every day after work.

“They urinate on the grass and leave trash all over,” she said. “You know how Mexicans are.”

“Yes, I do,” I replied. “I am a Mexican.”

She stared at me for a second then slammed the door.

End of interview.

I’ve had several interviews end this way. You see, I am what you might call a stealth Latino.

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I don’t look Latino, but both my parents were born in Mexico. I was born in the San Fernando Valley. I have dark hair, but I’ve often been confused for an Italian or a Spaniard.

I have Latino friends and colleagues who are often confused for valets or gardeners because of their complexion.

I have the opposite problem.

My name offers no clues to my background either. If I had a name like Ramirez, Sanchez or Martinez, I would be easy to pin down. My last name sounds pretty generic unless you pronounce it properly, with the accent on the last syllable. I suppose I could go by my full name: Hugo Humberto Martin Casillas. But I don’t have the energy or inclination to rattle off 10 syllables every time I introduce myself.

Normally, this is not an issue except when I run into a closet racist who assumes I’m white and feels compelled to spew anti-Latino bias in my face.

It has happened quite often. Call me lucky.

The reaction I get when I disclose my “secret” Latino identity to such people is priceless. Panic fills their eyes. The wheels in their head start to spin, but words fail them. In most cases, they walk away, frustrated.

I have to admit, I get a kick out of it.

I had an incident like this about two years ago when I worked in The Times’ City Hall bureau. An angry blue-haired woman stormed into the office, demanding that I report an injustice she was suffering at the hands of the bureaucrats. As she explained it, the city would not let her build her dream house in the Hollywood Hills unless she agreed to build an access road wide enough to accommodate emergency vehicles. She refused to build the road, arguing that it was too expensive.

“All I want to do is build my home in the hills so that I can get away from these people,” she repeated.

But I was already tied up in another story, so I suggested she pitch her story to the paper’s morning assignment editor, Stephanie Chavez.

“Chavez?” the woman said. “Is she a Mexican?”

“Yes,” I said. “What is wrong with that? I’m Mexican too.”

“That is who I am trying to get away from!” she shouted before she turned and stormed out.

I have friends who are Amerasian or light-skin African Americans who have recounted similar stories. Often, the offending party tries to make amends by saying something like: “Oh, I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about those other [Asians/blacks/Mexicans].”

Although we live in one of the most diverse regions of the country, I’m not surprised that comments like this are still common. Narrow-minded people will continue to hold on to narrow-minded ideas, despite the lessons of the riots and the ensuing “Day of Dialogue” and President Clinton’s initiative on race relations.

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A few months ago, I was sent to interview an elderly man whose dog was named dog of the year by an animal rights group. When we first met, he stared at me and said: “Don’t I know you from somewhere? You look familiar to me.”

“I don’t think we’ve met,” I said.

He then proceeded to tell me about the virtues of his little dog.

“My dog is very protective,” the old man said. “Just last month he chased off two wetbacks who were trying to come onto my property.”

Now I was sure I’d never met him before. He would have remembered me.