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Philip Vazquez Dr. E Community Based Writing and Rhetoric 1 September 2011 Gringo It seemed like a string of never ending concerns shot into my head when my father told me that I would be moving to Mexico City. As a young and innocent child I did not know what to expect on my adventure to a foreign country. My Father was going to be the Director General of the Latin American Division for American Airlines and he was very excited about the new position. I, on the other hand, was very comfortable in Miami. I had my friends, my teachers, my activities, and I did not want to move to a country that I heard was dirty and dangerous. I was nervous about a new experience; concerned about the changes, but most of all I was very anxious about what was awaiting me in Mexico. We arrived in summer, and as soon as I stepped out of the airport and took that first breathe of polluted air, I knew that Mexico City was going to be nothing like my previous life. On the ride to our new home my senses were overwhelmed with new and exciting sights, sounds, and smells. I saw traffic that seemed to continue into infinity; I saw huge favelas, shacks made of corrugated metal stacked on top of each other, blanketed hillsides. Women with babies slung over their shoulders would sell gum in the streets while their partly naked children would beg for money. On the other extreme the privileged lived in colossal mansions that resembled palaces. I heard a symphony of car horns, and sirens with a chorus of Mexicans yelling in Spanish. There was a wonderful blend of aromas as we passed street vendors taco stands, and small cafs.

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My dads company got us an apartment in one of the nicer high-rises in Mexico. The apartment was in a complex that had everything imaginable. There were tennis courts, basketball courts, pools, but what I enjoyed most was the view. I enjoyed the panoramic view of the surrounding mountains and the skyscrapers in downtown Mexico. As an expatriate you are treated almost like royalty. I was beginning to think that my worries were all in my head, until I arrived and had my first day of school. I went to the American School in Mexico. Contrary to the name, it is a school with a majority of the sons and daughter of the local titans of industry who were always accompanied by body guards, and a small minority of actual Americans. As I walked off the bus, I was stepping into my new world for the next couple of years. My new world was one that was surrounded by a fifteen foot concrete wall topped with barbed wire, a gate, and armed guards. As I began walking to my class I heard, Gringo! Go home. At first I ignored it and kept walking to my classes, but the bullies followed me and continued yelling this derogatory slur. Hey gringo, leave. Oye sal de aqu! They finally left me alone when the bell rand and they went to class. Later I found an American boy I knew and asked him what it meant. For the first time in my life I was being discriminated against for being an American. I didnt know if this schools walls were going to protect me or act as my prison. At that particular point, I knew that this adventure was going to be like nothing I had ever imagined. The following day I saw the same bullies on the playground. Gringo what are you doing here? I found the courage to defend myself. This is the American School? What are you doing here? At first I felt proud for sticking up for myself, until they started pushing me around. I began to fight back. This went on for what seemed like an hour, but was probably

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less than five minutes. One of the boys threw a punch, and connected to the side of my face. A teacher yelled from across the playground Hey! Stop that! and ran over. The boys scattered like rats. The teacher diagnosed my situation, and took me to the nurses office. Everybody involved got in trouble and parents were notified. My parents were told what every parent wants to hear from their childs first day of school: Their child had been in a fight. That afternoon I changed. I told myself over and over I hate these Mexicans. They are ruining my life. At school the next day I was very quiet and just tried to fade into the background. I would find an empty place on the playground to eat, and every time I saw, or thought I saw that group of bullies, I hid. The boys eventually stopped bothering me, and they moved on to weaker people, but the damage had been done. They had made me antisocial and they had instilled in me a very shallow and false perception of the Mexican people. My thoughts and personality had changes. I was no longer that social child who was full of adventure, but an introverted person with low self-esteem. I developed a very sad and unhealthy routine. I would sit alone on the swings. I would swing slowly back and forth listening to the chain whine to me about having to support me. I would watch all the other boys who were playing soccer in the field next to the playground. I would wait and hope for the school bell to ring, so that the beginning of class would end my solitude. My lonely hell lasted about six weeks until something incredible happened. One day I was having one of my usual pity parties until I was interrupted by a boy in my class. His name was Gabriel. Gabriel was a tall boy with brown skin and a black mop of hair on his head. Philip, you want to play some soccer. This was weird. Why would one of these mean Mexicans want to play with me? I cautiously accepted his invitation and I went

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to join the other boys in one of the numerous games that were going on, on the chaotic soccer field. I asked myself how can these Mexicans who hate Americans, want to be friends with me? We began hanging out more and more on the playground. I began going over to their houses, and they started to come to mine. I knew I was an official member of the group when I received the brightly colored piece of paper that told me that I was invited to Gabriels birthday party. When I arrived I say that it was not a very big party. There were only about ten people and a piata. I felt so proud being one of a select number of kids that had been invited to go. Little did I know that Gabriel, Jorge, Francisco, Samuel, Thomas, Daniel, and Juan Pablo would be lifelong friends that I often talk to. We began to share a bond on a common activity. Soccer allowed me to find common ground and look past my falsely fabricated view of an entire race. I no longer used adjectives like stupid and mean to describe them, but I saw that they were the exact same as me. I consider my four years in Mexico City one of the most incredible learning experiences of my childhood. Mexico became my home and I made life-long friends who I continue to communicate with. Most importantly, I realize how ignorant I was to negatively stereotype a whole country solely on the actions of a few bullies. To this day, whenever I hear a racist comment, I remember the degrading and humiliating feelings I felt when I was discriminated against and pray that someday people will soon understand the importance of accepting people for who they are and not where they are from. I was fortunate to have learned this at an early age.