#robert seltzer

In his brilliant work The Labyrinth of Solitude, Octavio Paz offers an insight which, for those who think writers have all the answers, may seem startling. “There is no meaning,” he states. “There is search for meaning.”

I agree, but I would amend the statement, if only slightly. The search is the meaning.  For it is in the journey, the quest – whether it is to become a better society or a better human being – that we realize ourselves. Yet that odyssey, as Paz demonstrated, is often more difficult for minorities because of the confusing labels society imposes upon us. We may not know who we are, much less who we want to be.

In her lovely short story, Eleven, our own Sandra Cisneros depicts this lurch toward self-identity. She describes a girl whose birthday is ruined by an experience which, for the reader, is both heartbreaking and infuriating. The girl sits at her desk, focusing on her studies, when another child discovers a sweater one of the other youngsters must have lost. It is an old, raggedy sweater, a glorified dust cloth, and the teacher assumes it belongs to the 11-year-old.

Why it must belong to her. After all, she is a Latina, and only a Latina would wear such a dreary garment. The teacher never says that, not in those words, but her message is clear: The 11-year-old is not worthy of wearing anything but a rag.

The girl insists the sweater does not belong to her; the teacher insists that it does. Guess who wins. The child finally accepts the sweater, a sweater she does not want. So, while the teacher has given her something, she has also taken something away – her pride.

In this display of authority, we see a subtle form of racism, subtle because the teacher never calls the student a “wetback” or a “greaser” or a “beaner.” She does not have to, because the bigotry is no less pernicious for being subtle. By forcing her to accept the garment, the teacher is imposing an identity on her. You are not who you think you are, the teacher is saying. You are who I think you are. You are someone who wears a ratty, old sweater, someone who is not fit to wear anything finer. Happy Birthday.

In The Last Time I Saw Junior, the tough, gritty short story by Dagoberto Gilb, we see a kind of bias that is even more insidious because it comes from within. In the story, the narrator helps a buddy who is threatened by a thug. The narrator intimidates the intimidator, and his buddy marvels at his courage.

"You were great!" he tells the narrator. "You were one scary Mexican."

And he was. He was one scary Mexican. And he feels terrible about it. He feels terrible about it, because it means he has lived up to the stereotype. Or down to the stereotype. He has confirmed the image.

It is the same in the classic memoir Down These Mean Streets by Piri Thomas. The young Piri wonders why he had to be born Puerto Rican, why he had to have dark skin and “thick, spiky” hair. And he wonders why people have to stare at him, burning holes into his soul, whenever he ventures from Spanish Harlem.

"I don't care what you say, Piri," Jose, his brother, tells him. "We're Puerto Ricans, and that makes us different from black people."

"Jose, that's what the man's been telling the Negro all along, that 'cause he's white he's different from the Negro, that he's better 'n the Negro or anyone that's not white."

In Aurora, a dazzling short story collection by Rafael Castillo, the author portrays a character with so much self-loathing that he tries to pass as “white.” Demeaned by others, he now demeans himself. The short story is entitled, appropriately enough, “Guero” (light-skinned).

In all these books or stories, the marginalized seek acceptance. And yet, as Paz stated, there is no meaning; there is only search for meaning. The journey toward acceptance is so powerful – in some cases, so all-consuming – that minorities – Latinos, African Americans, Native Americans – sometimes see scorn as acceptance. For when the larger group derides you, it often provides you with cache in the smaller group.

We saw this dynamic with the “pachucos” in post-World War II Los Angeles. With their zoot suits and slicked-back hair, the pachucos invited condemnation from polite society, but the condemnation felt like praise to these young Mexican-Americans. It gave them an identity, something they could be proud of.

In the case of my father, the search for identity took a twist. Chester Seltzer was an Anglo scorned by other Anglos. He loved Mexico, and he took solace in joining another group of marginalized people, Mexicans and Mexican-Americans. They were outsiders, as he was, but by becoming  “one of them,” the outsider became an insider. He wrote short stories, and when he married my mother in 1950, he adapted her maiden name as his pen name – Amado Muro.

When he changed his name, he also changed the subjects of his stories, writing about Mexicans and Mexican-Americans throughout the Southwest, including my hometown of El Paso. The stories were lyrical and passionate, and the man who wrote them, you would swear, was as Mexican as pulque or champurrado.

My beloved grandmother always said he was born an American – although she used the politically incorrect term “gringo” – but would die a Mexican. And when he did die, in 1971, his ruse died with him. Literary critics discovered he was not a Mexican at all, but an American, born and reared in Cleveland, Ohio, the son of a powerful journalist.

Whether he died an American or a Mexican, as my grandmother said he would, my father found his true identity when he changed his name to Amado Muro. Cultural appropriation? Perhaps. But I prefer to call it cultural appreciation. Chester Seltzer became who he wanted to be. He wanted to be Amado Muro.

I am sure he is out there, somewhere, celebrating Hispanic History Month with passion and enthusiasm.

~Robert L. Seltzer