Every once in a while, a small group of neighbors come together to share a meal, drink some wine (or libation of choice) and mostly talk about general nonsense with a sprinkle of politics, religion or whatever third rail of social interaction gets mixed in.
Last week, the tasting theme was “Mexican” and that evening’s lone Latina in the group quipped, “I’m the only Mexican here and I had a hard time deciding what to bring.” She eventually landed on some dishes and made an amazing guacamole dip. That was then. Yesterday was nice enough and an even smaller group came and sat outdoors — again, sharing wine (yeah, we’re like that) when she asked me, “Do you as an African-American feel people look at you or treat you differently?” I briefly considered the anti-immigrant sentiment here in Texas and the hateful law currently ping-ponging its way through the state’s legislature and various courts before jokingly replying, “Well, these days all I need is make sure I have a Mexican next to me.”
She replied, “Well, those are not my people” which stunned me to complete silence and an urgent need for another pour of mediocre wine.
It wasn’t just that she’d made such a declarative, self-loathing statement — one coming from a known ally (the host is actually a mild Republican) — it was that yesterday wasn’t the first time I’d heard something similar.
My landscaper, also Mexican, does a fabulous job on my yard. He’s a real chatterbox but I’ve enjoyed him immensely. But one day, discussing how he spends his retirement days, he mentioned Trump. I told him I’m not a fan, won’t vote for a criminal and Joe Biden’s my guy but ‘you do you.’ Then this police department retiree looked me in the eye and said, “You sound like my Mexican relatives who hate Trump. They don’t know how this country works.”
Now, I found much about that statement bizarre: Firstly, since I “sound like his relatives,” does he think I don’t know how this country works despite having served its military for 20 years? Secondly, did this guy just ‘other’ his own family? Separate himself from “they” … his own “Mexican relatives" — some of whom actually live in these United States? And, thirdly, what is a man whose relatives are Mexican but himself a Mexican?
This all happened in the past month, in a Texas city that has established itself as a tourist destination based on its embrace of its Mexican heritage. Yet, the degree of self-loathing I’d witnessed here has now provided an answer to a question that has nibbled at me over many years: During the Holocaust, how did neighbor turn against neighbor, friend against friend, relative against relative?
I am watching it unfold here in Texas. In my lifetime. In real time. And we haven’t even gotten to the most base components of human nature. I never discounted the accounts of Holocaust survivors and witnesses — I just could not wrap my head around the mechanics of people’s actions. Now I’m seeing it and it’s not particularly satisfying.
