Much has been written in the past days and weeks about Jeanine Cummins’ Oprah Approved novel, American Dirt, the story of a Mexican single mom leaving her home country because of gang violence. Many Mexicans and Chicanos have strong feelings about the fact that the author has identified as a white woman in the past, about her broad strokes with almost comically racist stereotypes, and the fact that, taking all this into account, she might not really be the writer to tell this story. As a Chicano writer, I share and understand these concerns. They affect me and the people around me deeply. That said, I would be remiss if I allowed my personal feelings to overshadow an aspect of the book that, unfortunately, Cummins’ got all too correct. A thing that happened to me: a drug cartel invaded my Quinceanera.
The year was 1990. It was a warm spring afternoon in some barren wasteland where cacti outnumbered humans by like fifteen to one. Lots of adobe, and colorful little houses where we were poor but happy, and often sang the songs of the old country, by bands like Menudo, and Rickey Martin’s solo albums, which hadn't even been released at the time. And of course Selena R.I.P. We would have done anything for Selenas. The backyard, which was just a pile of red dirt, was decorated resplendently with all the swag my Uncle Chuy got when he redeemed his Marlboro Bucks in 1982, and many small Chihuahuas named after authentic Mexican delicacies, like Crunchwrap Supreme Value Meal and Dos Equis, gathered around or lied in the oppressive sun, waiting to die. All my friends were there: Juan, Selena, Selena 2, Sad Girl, Juanita, Wanita with a W, Selena 3 and Lil Loco. Did I mention that Sad Girl was there? Because she was, and she was Sad. Our music blasted from a CD/cassette player in a way that was both endearing and disrespectful, which of course is a tenet of our culture. I was dressed very glamorously in a party dress with one hundred and thirteen tiers on the skirt. Mi Mami got the idea after seeing a particular fancy toilet paper cozy in the bathroom of one of the several houses she cleaned.
I was just about ready to do that thing where you spin around and people pin money on your skirt for a dance like some kind of crazy lunatic, after which we would eat misspelled sheet cake from FOOD 4 LESS. I was excited to be a woman at last, as it meant I could engage in all the elegant rituals of Mexican women, such as being angry on the phone, snapping gum in an irritated way, and giving white men erections out of spite.
Then the first shots rang out. Oh, no. Los Vatos Malos, our most feared enemy for some reason.
“Orale! Pay attention and sometimes a warm greeting to amigos, friends!” Uncle Chuy shouted ethnically. In those days, it was customary to speak a Spanish word followed by its English meaning, much like Dora the Explorer or that one dog on Paw Patrol, and we all nodded and ran into mi casa for safety. It was hard to see clearly at first, because of all the pot smoke and porcelain comedy/tragedy masks hanging everywhere. The old women were gathered in the kitchen, praying and making sweet conchas to dip into Abuelita brand hot chocolate. Someone yelled “AYYYYY” and everyone joined in for a while until we forgot why we were doing it. Then, more shots.
I would like to say that my experience is a rare one, but it’s simply not the truth. Statistics state that more than 85% of Quinceaneras end in gang violence, generally over drugs or fights that break out over which is the best Edward James Olmos movie. Complicating things, many deaths result in party goers not knowing which Lowriders belong to cartel members, since they blend in so easily with all the other lowriders. We were lucky that day; mi abuela did a whole buttload of Rosaries, and we all stood our ground against Los Vatos Malos, barraging them with jars of Vicks Vaporub and Chanclas, which is a kind of sandal used primarily for abuse, until they were forced to flee, Mariachi music on their car radios blaring in their wake. So, laugh at Cummins, if you must, at her tenuous Google Translate Espanol, or the fact that her eyebrows seem to keep getting thicker and her skin darker as the controversy worsens-- that’s fine, do as you like. But the next time you’re in a Party City and see the Quinceanera decorations, which are usually standees of Spongebob with a gold tooth cheating at poker or napkins that picture Garfield smoking a joint while giving the finger, remember the real fight we face, and pour one out for the fallen. And play some kind of music with accordions in it, we love that shit.