To be honest, I didn’t move up to Plumas County thinking I was going to be the only Latina/o teaching on a rural college campus. It didn’t occur to me that there would be a shortage of us on campus because I’d never been on a high school or college campus where Latinas were that kind of invisible.
I’d gone to a parochial college prep high school that was 90% Latino. We didn’t walk around wondering whether we’d go to college after high school—we were wondering which college we’d go to. I’d lived a good deal of my life in Los Angeles and San Francisco. I didn’t think about being Latina because—everybody I went to college with was Latina.
My mother was retiring up in the mountains; I was expecting my first child and moving to the middle of nowhere and teaching at the local community college sounded like a great plan. I could teach after my husband came home from work. NO need for outside the family childcare. I looked up the demographics of the county. At the time? There were 200 Latinos—in the whole county.
200?! THere seems to be like 200 at one of my husband’s family’s gatherings. How was it even possible to have the numbers so low?
My husband and I surmised that food choices were probably not going to be great restaurant wise but our kids would know what fresh air was and what trees were and the rent would be cheap in the tiny dot of red in blue state California. And with that naivete, we drove into Plumas County and I took a job in the English department at the college.
I didn’t notice anything unusual about being a Latina on campus right away–perhaps that was cause I mostly taught at night. I thought wow. This is so cool.
And then it seemed after a couple of semesters things got a little strange. I was there during the day, you see. And I saw.
First of all? I’m the only Latina faculty member. There is one Latino faculty member. I’m English; he’s math. There are two African –American assistant coaches for football and basketball. The rest of our campus is all white all the time. All the people with PhDs who should be doing research at a four year university, are slumming it doing the one thing they weren’t trained to do: teach.
And then it started.
“Are you the Spanish teacher? Can you add me to your Spanish class?” This came from students, who on hearing my last name was Garcia assumed I must be the one who teaches Spanish. At first I was polite about it.
“No, sorry. I teach English. Ms. So and So teaches Spanish.”
But then it kept happening. And happening. And gradually my answers began to change.
“Nope. I don’t teach Spanish,” whispering like it’s a conspiracy, “They let us teach English now.”
But it wasn’t just the students. My department chair and division chair have both asked me if I can teach Spanish.
“Sorry. Third generation. My Spanish is horrible. I can speak to grandparents at best. I could actually teach Japanese…”
This lack of Spanish on my part then led my colleagues to believe I must not be Latina at all. Who’d ever heard of a Latina who can’t speak Spanish? Well, I certainly had, of course. I mean that’s my whole family, my friends, my colleagues in LA and SF. But my rural white campus could not get over it.
And then I was on a hiring committee and at the end when we were filling out what the demographics were for the committee the leader of the group sighed and said, “once again, it’s an all white committee.”
I looked at him and said, “Am I not here? Do I not count?”
“Oh. I thought you were just Garcia by marriage.”
“That’s my name.”
“But aren’t you married to a Mexican?”
“And he does landscaping?”
Um, he’s the IT Co-ordinator for the school district….”
You can see where this was going.
I had a similar interaction in the town we settled in. A homeschooling family heard that we’d moved to town, looked us up and called.
“Hi. I heard you are new in town and that you’re Mexican.”
“Didn’t your mother move here too?”
“Yes. We actually followed her up here.”
“Well, I’m homeschooling my kids and am looking for a Spanish speaker who can help my kids learn Spanish and clean my house at the same time. Would your mother be interested in coming to work for us?”
I tried to picture my mother—a Latina Virgo who keeps an immaculate house and was the manager of the local hospital working as a domestic for a woman who wanted to teach her kids Spanish so they could vacation in Cabo.”
“I’ll let my mom know, but I thinks she’s pretty busy these days running the hospital. Thanks.”
They did need a Spanish teacher on campus and I recommended my husband since he is a native speaker of Spanish be considered for the position, but since he never took Spanish classes from a university as he was too busy speaking it in his home, they wouldn’t hire him.
I started wondering just what my role on campus was. Am I just an English teacher like all the English teachers? Am I some sort of ambassador or diplomat. Am I supposed to be explaining the basics here? And why is it my role to do any of this?
For awhile, I decided to remain silent on all things related to ethnicity. I didn’t want to sound defensive or like a broken record. Sometimes I got snarky or perhaps funny, but I left it at that. It was under my breath. The doormat approach. I wouldn’t make waves and hope when a full time position opened up, they’d consider me. I didn’t think I could be a one-woman committee.
But then? Students started coming up to me. Through the grapevine and reputation they’d found out a few things and started talking to me.
They were the students with the Spanish surnames.
They were the students who were the first in their families to go to college—just like I was.
They were students who’d come here to play soccer or came to get away from it all and had no idea there was a pocket of California untouched by fast food restaurants and time.
A homeboy from LA once lifted his shirt after class to show me his Old English tattoo of the his name and mine GARCIA across his chest.
“I can hook you up Ms. Garcia” he smiled proudly.
“I never thought one of us would be my English teacher.”
Once? A group of young women cornered me after class and said, “We just wanted to tell you we’re so excited to see you on campus. We feel like maybe we could do it too someday.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that I could be a role model until I was one.
And more things happened.
There was last Spring when a flyer was circulated with a drunk Speedy Gonzales dancing with drunk jalapeno peppers for a carwash fundraiser for the softball team. I couldn’t bite my tongue. I’d just done an event where every little inch of a flyer had been scrutinized and here this was going out in our email system to everyone.
I emailed the office that handles such affairs.
She said: “It’s Cinco de Mayo.”
I said: “Racist much?”
I then was treated to a lecture on how it wasn’t intended as racism. I decided to try and be the diplomat here. I googled papers on Speedy Gonzales and forwarded them since my word on the matter would not have the value a peer reviewed article on Speedy would have.
I forwarded my concerns about drunk jalapenos as representations on a college campus of the Mexican experience.
The all-white diversity committee hauled me in for a meeting. Could I please explain what was wrong with the flyer.
If you have to ask…….
Maybe I was in a generous mood that day but I decided not to just smile and take it anymore. Nor did I decide to let them see the full rage of Latina passion (though I admit, throwing a chancla at the committee had really tempting value to me).
I chose their approach.
I gave up and went with powerpoint logic.
They were of course, apologetic.
It hasn’t ended the discussion on our campus regarding the treatment and depiction of Latinas on campus but it’s a start in our rural area. I have to, in my mind, strike a balance between bridging the gap between their limited knowledge and my frustration. But I’m no longer the silent doormat.
It was Women’s History Month. The diversity committee put up a display of women in American history to celebrate for various achievements. Not a single panel had a Latina or Asian American. Diversity to the diversity committee is literally about white and black.
So with a heavy sigh I went back to the committee and politely diplomatically informed them of their omission.
Perhaps this is what they need from me. Perhaps I’ll be the thorn in their collective side. But more importantly my students, our students will benefit from my work to improve the conversation for all of us.
It isn’t like me and it doesn’t feel good to have to be the watch dog. I want to teach. I want my students to learn. I want it to be 2014 California not 1960 Alabama.
When I make suggestions in my department, the female co-chair talks louder to me as if I’m hard of hearing. She explains basic concepts of 20th century literature to me as if I’m stupid. She has no real Latinos or Latinas on her book list. EVER.
It’s important that minority students see themselves on college campuses not just as the maids and the landscapers (I’m the first college graduate on my mother’s side, my grandfather was a gardener with a sixth grade education). It’s important that they see us teaching subjects other than Spanish. It’s important they have examples of contributions they can make. It’s also important that minority students do not see minority instructors being milquetoast and bowing down to white English department demands as if we are their servants.
But my department can’t get beyond the basics. The basics being? This Latina is smart. And I’m not here to make your bed. I’m not here to take your kids for a walk or get them off to school. I’m here with my Masters to teach and to learn. I’m here to expose my students to a wide variety of literature. I’m here to show them what can be possible. But sometimes what should be possible isn’t possible for me.
Let me do my job.