Of Flags and Men

Back in the ‘70s we took sides, young Chicanos, waving the Mexican flag every chance we got, but it wasn’t so easy, either. We got flak from our parents.

They had grown up in the ‘30s, in the ‘40s, right here in L.A., and some of them couldn’t even pronounce the word “Mexican” in mixed company without cringing, as if they had swallowed a sour ball in front of a crowd judging them for poise and elan. And they told their kids the same sad story. “We are Mexican, we are not. Never deny your heritage! Watch me deny my heritage! Mi raza primero, but don’t forget the good ol’ U.S.A. We are Mexican Americans, not Mexican Mexicans, no matter what they say, los gringos. Mexican Americans.”

They had fought the big wars a generation earlier. They had pride and confidence, the men and the women, from the battlefields and the home front. They swelled with patriotism that they had been through this with the rest of the country, but still felt lonely and confused.

“We’re Mexican! American! When I was fighting the Japs . . . In Korea . . . Man, I knew this dude from Arkansas I hung with . . . Some of those Italians from New York, crazy . . . But they still hate us down here, ha?”

“Yeah, no. What are you saying, Rudolfo? Leave it alone.”

And the Mexican flags went up. They went up in the ‘60s, in the ‘70s, in a little working-class town outside of L.A. called City of Commerce. Rich industry polluted our skies. We were happy. The men were working and the kids full.

Now they started hearing a chant. It started softly, then grew louder and louder: “Chicano power! Chicano power!”

And the kids liked it. “We’re Mexicans! Don’t be ashamed of the race! Fly the flag!”

“No, I’m not going to fly the damn flag,” said fathers who had fought and mothers who had waited. They had no patience for the Mexican flag. “Not now,” they said, “it’s not ours anymore.”

But the kids insisted: “¡Chale, la revolucion es ahora! The revolution is now!” testing the limits of their Spanish.

All that shame and half-baked allegiance to the U.S.A. had to go.

The Mexican flag went up. Usually a small one and not too prominent, but up it went on windshields and sewn onto Levi’s. And alongside it, ah! the American flag! Plastered on by parents who refused to neglect it.

And worn by Chicanos who finally claimed it, sporting it ironically. It was the cool thing to do. It meant you really didn’t believe in it but kind of did. On those frayed Levi’s and jeans jackets, tattered and proud, in poster-bedecked rooms black-light lit and humid with dope.

“There it is, man, our flag,” we marveled at the ease at which we adopted it, entering unnoticed the great confraternity of the American people.

“We’re in,” we might have said, before we even realized it. Before it sank in.

The American flags went up and up and up and up: They got bigger, and many more flew along the streets in Commerce, well-paved streets with modest homes and trim green lawns, new cars in the driveways and no crime on the streets, to speak of, in my own neighborhood.

Remember that argument about the Mexican flag? Dead. The children had grown up and left or stuck around and bought in Commerce, where they wanted the property values to stay high and the streets clean. Only in the U.S.A.

The Mexican flags got folded and packed in trunks alongside the moth-eaten souvenirs of the times, bongs wrapped in serapes weighed down with the old man’s mementos from WWII.

And shock waves hit.

“Did you see, man,” I heard someone ask one day during the World Cup soccer tournament and a trip home to Commerce, fast changing now, more immigrants moving in and working in the neighborhood, “the Mexican flag at the gas station? They flew the Mexican flag, man! A big old Mexican flag over the American!” Shock and awe. Anger.

Who do the Mexicans think they are? And who are we?

“Americans ought to do something, man,” came the answer. “We shouldn’t let this happen.”

A Mexican flag flying over dirty L.A. at noon settled the question.

“That’s not our flag, man, that’s wrong.”

And now we find ourselves at this crossroads. Flags. Allegiance. Race. (Whatever that means anymore.)

“Aren’t you concerned, man? All these mexicanos who want this to be Mexico again? I hear them talking. I’ve talked to them.”

“Not all of them, man,” we speak working-class American--excuse the man’s, man, and listen to me now, man--”I know all kinds of mexicanos who just want a better life here.”

“I hear you. But I hear some rumblings from down south about a ‘bronze’ nation stretching from Mexico City to Los Angeles, and California finally being ‘ours’ again.”

“Really, you heard that? That’s messed up. I don’t want this country to turn into Mexico, do you?”

“No, that’s what I’m saying. There’s a real threat now. We’ll be Mexico in 20 years.”

“Damn, dude, you sound like a racist, one of these talk show hosts.”

“No, I’m not. I just don’t want my country to be Mexico, do you?”

“Are you kidding me? They still can’t pave the streets down there. I’m sad. I go down there and get depressed. Not that I wish them bad or anything.” We stare at each other, two Chicanos who have grown up neither stupidly radical nor insanely conservative or inanely patriotic. Neither Mexico-hating nor blindly America-loving.

Wanting the best for two countries. Thinking this country will not be served by admitting about 12 million undocumented aliens into its ranks unearned. Hoping that the politicians feel the gravity of the situation and put aside partisan politics in favor of a national policy of sense and restraint.

“I feel guilty, man.”

“I know you do. I do too. Sad, depressed, lonely. But I don’t want the Mexican flag flying over my country. I think it’s a real possibility.”

“What would you do with them? The millions of illegals?”

“Nothing. Secure the border. Rescind the law granting automatic citizenship for those born on these shores. It’s a joke.”

“Why?”

“Anchor babies, they’re called. Grab a hold in the U.S.A. by having a baby here.”

“That’s awful, what you’re saying.”

“Grow up. An old saying in my family. ‘¿Y Mexico, cuando va a cambiar?’ And Mexico, when is it going to change? You think we help them in the long run by being an outlet for its misery?”

“We’re talking about real people here, dude.”

“I know. And we’re talking about real people here too, our country, our way of life, our standard of living. I saw a paleta man walking up the street the other day. I wanted to hit him.”

“What?”

“Run over him in my car. He was on a street I used to live on. I’m glad I don’t live there now.”

“You’re crazy, man.”

“I know. But I bet no crazier than a lot of people who don’t want their country turning into Mexico. No quieren las calles de Mexico aqui. They don’t want the streets of Mexico here. And that’s what Mexicans want, the streets of Mexico here.”

“Did you really want to run him over?”

“I was feeling really angry. Leave it at that. I see this guy walking blithely up the street, spitting in the weeds--yeah, that didn’t help--and I think, ‘Damn! You’ve ruined my old neighborhood!’ I don’t want to hear your paleta bells and see your Third World cart. I’d rather the ice cream man pollute my street like when I was a kid. That’s my culture, baby! Don’t you get it?”

“Man, you really mean this, don’t you?”

“Yes, I think the situation is more serious than the politicians allow. I think Americans are cowed into silence by fears of being called racist. I think we should be calling the shots on this, and we better hurry up and do it soon before it’s too late.”

“Too late for what?”

“To sing the national anthem in English.”

And we both kind of sick-laugh, give each other the Chicano shake, feebly, and split at the corner where the flag hangs over the hardware store.