New York City is a magical place where the stiffing rules of the American suburbs do not apply. For example, New Yorkers don’t brag about getting married. If anything, they mention it in passing and with a bit of shame: “I had to marry João because otherwise he was gonna be deported. I love him, yes, but I’m still getting divorced once his green card arrives because fuck the patriarchy, you know? Anyway. Let’s get bagels.”
People here can live their entire adult lives as big children and never be shamed for it. It’s great until somebody talks to their parents: “Ugh, my mom called me last night and she kelp talking excitedly about Mary, our neighbor, and how she got knock up by some guy who works at Auto Zone. It was so gross, just like this stinky lox. I should have asked for hummus instead.”
When New Yorkers have scary brushes with suburban life, brunch reunions quickly turn into baby and marriage-bashing discussions. These conversations can be especially gruesome if they’re being had by thirty-somethings. It’s their last chance to turn back, the end of their Rumspringa: “Sandy, you’re not Janet Jackson; you either pop out João’s child now and move back to Virginia with your parents, or you divorce his ass, get an abortion, and relocate your jewelry studio to Bay Ridge. I mean, you can’t have your scallion cream cheese spread and eat it, too.”
Some get cold feet and return from whence they came. They’re only heard from again in loud, distorted, and shaky Instagram videos which are usually filmed in strip malls, backyard birthday parties, or high school football games.
The ones who brave the fray continue down their their bitter, righteous paths: “Sandy is SO lame, Janice. But I knew she was gonna move back because she never even finished The Second Sex. She’s probably fawning over tract housing as we speak — oh, just like I’m fanning over this pumpernickel everything and whitefish salad. Hold my cold brew.”
Oh, right. Old-school Mexicans humiliate their children by pretending they don’t exist.
I’ve been visiting my mother, and all of our immediate family, for the last week. They’re old-school, rural Mexicans. The kind who always offer food, even if they hate you.
I’m in my mid 30s now, and have been living on my own since I was 18, so at our gatherings I get a proper adult seat at the table. They listen to what I have to say, but it wasn’t always like that.
It’s not like that for my younger relatives, either. At family reunions, I see them out of the periphery of my eye. They’re trying to get a word in, but those older Mexicans won’t allow it. Why would they? What have those mocosos (snot-nosed kids) done to deserve anybody’s respect? Did they pay for their food? For the roof over their head? For their car, gas, clothes? No? Then they don’t exist.
Yes, they’re physically there, but unless they can prove their worth through monetary independence, they’re no one. If they try to make their voices heard, they’ll be silenced by a death stare, or an abrupt change in conversation.
If they persist, other humiliations will be flung at them, such as being asked to do something entirely meaningless, just like their opinion. “Vete a ver si ya puso la marrana” (go see if one of the pigs laid an egg) is a classic. My grandma had one of the most bizarre just-get-the-fuck-out-of-here phrases, which I’ve never heard elsewhere: “Vete a descular hormigas” (go chop the asses off ants).
I know these Mexicans sound like assholes, but they’re like that because they believe in resilience, not fragility. Giving encouragement to a mentally and physically healthy person seems redundant to them. Those people already have all they need to succeed, they’ll think.
To gain their respect, at the very least a person will need to become self-sufficient. That’s how you earn the right to sit with them. Either you’re with that, or you’re not there at all.
“Trump Dating” site doesn’t want the gays, but allows the “happily married” to join
You can even be mad at Trump Dating, a new website for lonely — or not so lonely, but just promiscuous — maganogamous people. It’s a perfect representation of their cherished administration, since it’s also homophobic — it only allows “straight” women or men to sign up — and, just like Trump, it’s all about adulterous relationships:
“When you kick off the process of starting a profile, you get two options for labeling yourself — ‘straight man’ or ‘straight woman.’
Yet according to Trump Dating’s rather strange drop-down menus, married people are welcome. For a relationship status, the site offers options like ‘have a significant other,’ ‘happily married,’ and ‘unhappily married.'”
And since no self-respecting republican-specific dating site should exist unless it takes an issue with race, Trump Dating allows their users to be super specific about their genealogy:
“The ethnicity options also seemed oddly specific. In addition to the typical categories, the site includes choices like ‘Scandinavian,’ ‘Polynesian,’ ‘Eastern European,’ ‘Western European,’ ‘Mediterranean,’ and ‘Eskimo,’ a term used to label the indigenous people of Alaska, Canada, and Greenland that is considered offensive and inaccurate.”
OMG, you guys. There better be a second menu where users can identify which of the five Aryan subtype races — Nordic, Mediterranean, Dinaric, Alpine, and East Baltic — they belong to. Otherwise the server room of this Trump Dating is gonna get tiki torched.
Culture3 weeks ago
Calm the f*ck down with your “Despacito” Grammy outrage. It’s not that serious.
Culture4 weeks ago
Dating a Latina from another country gives me the right amount of separation from my culture
Culture3 weeks ago
Just because I’m not dating a Mexican doesn’t mean you shouldn’t
Culture3 weeks ago
Adultery, greed and hypocrisy: The dark side of Chespirito