The following is what happens sometimes when I'm writing something yet falling asleep at the keyboard at the same time.
***
"What blood are you?" asked the mariachi, touching my forearm and eyeing me
suspiciously.
Ah, the question.
Funny how patterns emerge from the din, from the chaos that makes up one's life. Questions about who by way of WHAT I am emerge sometimes. Not by my choice, but it happens often enough that I can't ignore it:
In the chiropractor's office, where I've struck up a conversation with the doctor's ladyfriend: "Can I ask you a personal question? What ethnicity are you?"
At work, after I've spent an hour listening to the transcendent voice of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, a Pakistani Qaawali singer, I learn about the conversation that occurs in my absence: "What IS Brian, listening to that music an all? Is he... Indian?"
Similar question, implied, from a pair of smiling neighborhood girls who stop by on their bikes and catch me pulling into the driveway with banda (Northern Mexican) music blaring. "Why are you listening to that?"
Some don't even question it, making an assumption that puzzles yet amuses me. In Chipotle last week, while having my burrito prepared in a chain restaurant in the West End, the servers solicited my ingredients, and where I wanted to dine, in Spanish only. Didn't happen to my lunch partner (who is, coincidentally, half Mexican). Luckily, I could answer.
The answer to the broader question: I'm a cracker.
How's that?
Okay. I'm a slightly dark-skinned Caucasian with French Canadian (or Cajun, depending on who you ask), Cherokee, Choctaw, "black Dutch" and various other mutts thrown in. Makes me a lot like you (and you and you and you).
This isn't intended to be a "we are the world" anti-racist diatribe. No, the lines I think we should be ignoring are much less challenging than a racial divide.
I think about Doug Sahm, who played whatever the hell kind of music he wanted. Farfisa-based rock with the Sir Douglas Quintet, border music with the Texas Tornadoes, rollicking blues and R&B as a solo artist. And more, much more. It was a very natural approach for him, and by gum, if it's good enough for Sahm, it's good enough for me.
Not that I've intentionally modeled myself on the man. No, I can remember hitting the Pearland flea market as a child, listening to white people grumble about the Tejano music blaring from boomboxes in the booths. And I remember thinking, I'll bet somebody likes this as much as I like Creedence Clearwater Revival and the Beatles.
The Texas Gulf Coast, while not offering much in the way of, uh, appealing stuff, is not far from proper Cajun country. When I was growing up there were always little bands with accordions and stuff around, and we ate dirty rice and boiled shrimp and gumbo. I didn't know it was a rich culture with a tragic history; I just thought it was "coonass." Grandmother "Babbi" Pourcein
was from the New Orleans area, and she threw a few French words our way, and speaks to this day in that great N.O. accent.
The Texas Gulf Coast is also home to a large Czech community. Kolaches and polkas certainly weren't uncommon. Ever had klobase on your nachos? English was the third language at the wildest party I ever attended, distantly trailing Czech and Polish.
There are lots of little bridges across those imaginary borders. Led Zeppelin certainly helped turn me on to blues, but Robert Plant also talked about his love for Moroccan music, and about singing in quartertones, an entirely different musical approach than we're taught in the West. Though I'm not certain Plant's quartertones are always intentional, my interest did broaden just a bit. A local indie station features Indian (as in from India) music on Saturday mornings, and sometimes it's wonderful (and sometimes it sucks; just because it's exotic and different doesn't mean it's always great).
The station also has Indian (Native American) music on Sunday nights.
So I don't have a good answer as to why, sometimes, a complete stranger makes an assumption or asks a question about who/what I am based on nothing I can discern. It's certainly interesting, and it's flattering when someone assumes I'm part of an interesting culture (because really, I'm not; white culture is based on super-sizing our meals and oppressing brown people as
far as I can tell). I don't know if the blurred borders within me are somehow apparent to others outside of any recognizable context. I do know that I really wish I had more company in this attitude. Why am I the only white guy at a Mexican wedding reception who can make a request when the mariachi band comes to the table?
We're in Texas, and I think any self-respecting Texan should make some effort to speak Spanish. Look at all the interwoven countries in the U.K. and Europe. They don't tend to adhere to the "speak my language or get the hell out" credo. Lots of Englishmen speak passable French, you know?
This all probably sounds really egotistical, but that's not my intention. I just wish people would put down their copies of Slippery When Wet and open their ears, hearts and minds.
***
"What blood are you?" asked the mariachi, touching my forearm and eyeing me
suspiciously.
Ah, the question.
Funny how patterns emerge from the din, from the chaos that makes up one's life. Questions about who by way of WHAT I am emerge sometimes. Not by my choice, but it happens often enough that I can't ignore it:
In the chiropractor's office, where I've struck up a conversation with the doctor's ladyfriend: "Can I ask you a personal question? What ethnicity are you?"
At work, after I've spent an hour listening to the transcendent voice of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, a Pakistani Qaawali singer, I learn about the conversation that occurs in my absence: "What IS Brian, listening to that music an all? Is he... Indian?"
Similar question, implied, from a pair of smiling neighborhood girls who stop by on their bikes and catch me pulling into the driveway with banda (Northern Mexican) music blaring. "Why are you listening to that?"
Some don't even question it, making an assumption that puzzles yet amuses me. In Chipotle last week, while having my burrito prepared in a chain restaurant in the West End, the servers solicited my ingredients, and where I wanted to dine, in Spanish only. Didn't happen to my lunch partner (who is, coincidentally, half Mexican). Luckily, I could answer.
The answer to the broader question: I'm a cracker.
How's that?
Okay. I'm a slightly dark-skinned Caucasian with French Canadian (or Cajun, depending on who you ask), Cherokee, Choctaw, "black Dutch" and various other mutts thrown in. Makes me a lot like you (and you and you and you).
This isn't intended to be a "we are the world" anti-racist diatribe. No, the lines I think we should be ignoring are much less challenging than a racial divide.
I think about Doug Sahm, who played whatever the hell kind of music he wanted. Farfisa-based rock with the Sir Douglas Quintet, border music with the Texas Tornadoes, rollicking blues and R&B as a solo artist. And more, much more. It was a very natural approach for him, and by gum, if it's good enough for Sahm, it's good enough for me.
Not that I've intentionally modeled myself on the man. No, I can remember hitting the Pearland flea market as a child, listening to white people grumble about the Tejano music blaring from boomboxes in the booths. And I remember thinking, I'll bet somebody likes this as much as I like Creedence Clearwater Revival and the Beatles.
The Texas Gulf Coast, while not offering much in the way of, uh, appealing stuff, is not far from proper Cajun country. When I was growing up there were always little bands with accordions and stuff around, and we ate dirty rice and boiled shrimp and gumbo. I didn't know it was a rich culture with a tragic history; I just thought it was "coonass." Grandmother "Babbi" Pourcein
was from the New Orleans area, and she threw a few French words our way, and speaks to this day in that great N.O. accent.
The Texas Gulf Coast is also home to a large Czech community. Kolaches and polkas certainly weren't uncommon. Ever had klobase on your nachos? English was the third language at the wildest party I ever attended, distantly trailing Czech and Polish.
There are lots of little bridges across those imaginary borders. Led Zeppelin certainly helped turn me on to blues, but Robert Plant also talked about his love for Moroccan music, and about singing in quartertones, an entirely different musical approach than we're taught in the West. Though I'm not certain Plant's quartertones are always intentional, my interest did broaden just a bit. A local indie station features Indian (as in from India) music on Saturday mornings, and sometimes it's wonderful (and sometimes it sucks; just because it's exotic and different doesn't mean it's always great).
The station also has Indian (Native American) music on Sunday nights.
So I don't have a good answer as to why, sometimes, a complete stranger makes an assumption or asks a question about who/what I am based on nothing I can discern. It's certainly interesting, and it's flattering when someone assumes I'm part of an interesting culture (because really, I'm not; white culture is based on super-sizing our meals and oppressing brown people as
far as I can tell). I don't know if the blurred borders within me are somehow apparent to others outside of any recognizable context. I do know that I really wish I had more company in this attitude. Why am I the only white guy at a Mexican wedding reception who can make a request when the mariachi band comes to the table?
We're in Texas, and I think any self-respecting Texan should make some effort to speak Spanish. Look at all the interwoven countries in the U.K. and Europe. They don't tend to adhere to the "speak my language or get the hell out" credo. Lots of Englishmen speak passable French, you know?
This all probably sounds really egotistical, but that's not my intention. I just wish people would put down their copies of Slippery When Wet and open their ears, hearts and minds.
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