Posted on March 9, 2010 - by michelle

Why Cinco de Mayo is more than just a frat-boy tequila fest for me this year.

“Everybody get out of the car, now!” the officer screamed. His face was red, his eyes bulging. Or, at least, that’s how I remember it.

It was the way an officer’s face looks in the movies when he finally catches up with kidnapper, or drug dealer, or whichever evil suspect he’s been racing through red lights, sirens blasting, traffic-defying, to follow, so he can force a dramatic showdown on the shoulder of the road. On the big screen,  the scene usually unfolds on the crowded highway of a major metropolis. By the time the hard-pressed cop gets out of the car he is wild-eyed, furious, barely able to contain the beat-down the good-for-nothing, high-speeding criminal clearly deserves.

Only the driver in this case wasn’t a suspected robber, or an escaping convict, or even shameless speed racer trying to get away with a 90-mile-an-hour-clip. This time the perpetrator was Rick,  my then- 16-year-old older brother.  We lived in Carpentersville, Illinois, a good 45 miles out of Chicago, and we were headed to the city together for the first time without an adult. My brother didn’t have time to think much about how fast he was going or even what route to take. My mother worked the night shift at a Mexican restaurant at the time, so there was no one to ask. All we knew was that my younger brother, Dan, was sick, in severe pain, and we needed to get the special hospital he went to in  the city,  fast. So we all piled into Rick’s recently purchased  1980s Oldsmobile, haphazardly throwing Dan’s wheelchair into the trunk and going, before we even had a chance to call our mother, before we even knew what we were doing. We didn’t get very far. About five miles away from our house, the sirens started, and the officer pulled us over. We didn’t have much experience with the police. My brother was an honor’s student (and now has a PhD); I was a nerdy good girl (at the time). I can remember us scrambling, all talking at once, two flustered teenagers and a kid. All I remember is the officer screaming for us to get out and barely listening as we explained that Dan couldn’t get out, or even move, because he couldn’t walk. And then I remember going to station. And waiting for a half and hour in the car with my crying, confused, 10-year-old brother, who just kept saying, why do we have to wait? Why can’t we just go?

An everyday reminder
At the time, I didn’t connect what happened to our being Mexican American. After all, Rick didn’t say much when he finally came out of the station, except that he didn’t want to talk about it. I just thought it had something to with the invisible stain that seem to surround us. No one ever seemed happy to see us, when we went to the post office, when we went to the mall, when we went anywhere. I was born in Chicago, I didn’t even consider my half-Mexican heritage to be significant until I got to college. And yet, being stopped, and the disgusted look that police officer gave us, has stayed with me for years. It made me believe that it wasn’t just the rich, white kids at school who considered me second class citizen, it was also the police. It made me think, “It’s going to be everybody. You’ll never fit in.”  No matter how much I tried to forget about the looks I received, the memories of that day have made me think twice and have often made me doubt myself. Now that there’s a new law set to take effect in Arizona, legitimizing the questioning of people based on their resemblance to an illegal immigrant, it makes me think of all the kids in the cars, who will see their parents, their families and their friends questioned, regardless of where they were born. Will they now wonder, “Why are we the bad guys?”

This time I want to celebrate
In the past, I saw Cinco de Mayo as a joke.  I either rolled my eyes at my friend’s dancing sombrero email invitations and hit delete or used it as an excuse to have too many margaritas, just like everyone else. But this year, especially, I’m considering it a chance to celebrate more then the expulsion of  French “emperor” Maxmillian from the state of Puebla. I’m thinking that I, along with all the other kids in the cars, could use a reason to feel positive about having brown skin and family from “the other side.” Even if it just involves having a cold drink on a patio listening to Mariachis. Even if it just involves sitting at a table with family, thinking of a reason to be proud.