Wander logo

Walls Jumped, Bridges Made

The Story of an Immigrant Boy Moving Into the States and the Inner Wrestling that Made It All Better

By Salvador BravadoPublished 6 years ago 9 min read
Like

What if your parents decided to move to another country? More importantly, moving to another country without asking you for permission? When we crossed the border I was scared out of my mind. I felt like I was yanked from my clothes and kicked overboard in the dark Arctic waters. I felt exposed and deprived of parts of my identity. That was 10 years ago when I was in fourth grade, but today I feel much different. Now that my family and I live here, in “el otro lado,” as we call it where I come from. I realize something heart-warming and soul-fulfilling as freshly made tortillas. I am a man of two nations and I am prideful to claim that I have two places to call home.

Before those times, I called Tijuana, Mexico, my sole home. My parents, younger brother, and I lived one block away from la linea. We lived on the fifth floor of our yellow-mustard apartments. If you walked the dusty beige stairs up to the roof you could see beyond the border from there. I never gave it much thought, as dirty and wild as Tijuana was, it was my world. I knew the United States existed and that people moved to find better lives for themselves and their families. At least that’s what I learned from my parents and movies. We lived so close to the United States but ironically, the idea of moving to the “greener side” was terrifying. I was about to learn first-hand how deep opinions and sentiments can gradually change over time.

On a sunny morning inside our pale, tiny kitchen my mom asks me “Junior, ¿te acuerdas?” She asks me if I remember my dad and her considering moving to the United States. I looked at the floor and replied with a nod. I felt panic and terror for what she was going to say next. I am hoping she is going to say something along the lines of “never mind we like it here.” She exclaimed the opposite, and by the end of winter, we were across the river.

I felt cheated and disregarded like I was left out of a big decision. I felt that I deserved to be the deciding vote on whether to stay or leave. I felt a silly and capricious resentment towards the United States for taking California from us. I would say to myself “In another universe, California would have been part of Mexico and I would still be home.” In retrospect, I believe I was looking for someone or something to blame. I wanted to blame my parents, yet they always told me they wanted the best for me. I was not so convinced back then.

We settled in the city of Chula Vista, a city south of San Diego dubbed “Chula Juana” and known for its lemons and car shops. My mom enrolled me at Montgomery Elementary School (fun times) and I was labeled competent enough to skip to fifth grade. I agreed to it because I thought I would skip a year of embarrassment and academic torture. The school was one block away from my house, which was convenient because I had an irrational fear of getting lost and not being able to pronounce correctly the names of the streets. Before my first day of school I asked mom with anxiety: how I would make friends if I don't know English? She replies with effort, attitude, and with your pocket-book translator. I knew English from movies and games, not the kind that allows for making meaningful social connections. Hence, I dreaded school at first, I only felt lost, frustrated, and stupid. I told myself “I bet everyone labels me as a mute loser with no friends but if I could talk they would know otherwise.” I felt that everything I could be and do was compromised. Now I believe those who don't speak another language and are open to new opportunities are limited and compromising parts of their life.

When I started school, the language barrier was my biggest wall. I let it get the best of me for a long time. Inside the classroom, I ducked to avoid reading out loud any text. Mrs. King looked and skipped me, I reflected and raised my hand. I got picked and read “strolling down the hall.” Then I was interrupted with giggles because I pronounced “hall” like hell. Laughter ensued, and everyone started calling me the devil because I said “strolling down the hell.” My hollow freight of speaking English was filled with grains of sand like a sand hourglass (In hindsight, I find it comical). As time went by my anxiety about speaking English aggregated. During recess, I rarely voiced my opinions out loud for fear of being ridiculed. In class, I felt embarrassed when asking questions. At lunch, I felt left out of gossip and jokes for not grasping cultural references or idioms. I had to trip and tumble through all forms of social interactions. Hence, I felt I had to hang on to something I could trust and not trip me. That meant I would only read Spanish, and listened to Mexican music. I would only hang out with Spanish speaking peers and played only Fútbol. It culminated with me not wanting to practice any form of English and constraining myself in many aspects of my life.

However, constraining myself to Spanish arenas to feel comfortable did not alleviate but merely prolonged my unrest. I felt like a burden to everyone who helped me translate anything. It felt they were doing it out of pity. Perhaps I was not mindful or aware of it to even seek help. Perhaps I did not even have the vocabulary to even effectively communicate my crisis to others. But I remember feeling my parents understanding only half of it. I was cursed for eternity by lord Cthulhu to be friends with Jose and Juan (that was a joke). I made the decisions I regret. More importantly, and specifically: not truly trying to learn English and seeking sanctuary soon rocked the boat.

I assimilated and learned English in time. How did it happen? I found common ground for me and my American peers. A place to stumble and grow my English skills if you will. At the time professional wrestling was a huge sensational topic in the fifth-grade scene. In Mexico, “Lucha Libre” as we call it, was not exactly Fútbol popular but it had its fair share of followers. Many of them were immortalized in pop culture, like el Perro Aguayo, el Blue Demon, el Santo. In a moment of revelation, I saw traces of Mexican wrestling culture inside American wrestling. Some of them were masked like traditional Mexican wrestlers and even tattooed with Mexican pride. My buddies and I would watch matches together. I would explain and share with excitement to everyone the hidden Mexican roots in the sport. It became a discussion, my buddies would be intrigued and share other factoids and trivia with me. I learned the stage names and wrestling moves, the rules, and schedules, the signature moves, and catchphrases. I learned English by engaging in discussion on something my buddies and I were excited about. We borrowed each other’s movies and games and an exchange of culture and language happened. Professional wrestling was a bridge for me to form friendships and ultimately learn the language and become fully assimilated.

Inside me, there was another struggle beside the language, a resistance to assimilate. Within, a new American side of me emerged. The American persona crept up on me and gradually became my other half, El Americano. I resisted it because I thought it would make me lose my Mexican side. I felt a looming disappointment from parents knowing they had a Pocho son. The tension between my old and new self-was at first sharp. I would catch myself saying phrases like “Oh, man!” Then something would wrench my stomach towards and I would have a cringe-like feeling. I asked myself if that was a genuine or phony response? Depending on the social circumstances I would jump between the two sides of me, back and forth. It was exhausting and it would leave me with a guilty feeling that I would swap faces to just fit in. At times, I even felt dishonest. I sincerely felt I was hiding something very important about myself when people just saw one half. It was like fleas latched on top my conscience and each head scratch relieved me for a moment but never completely. I felt I was misleading and deceiving myself and others. The constant and draining flipping drove me to ask: would they have liked me better if I showed both sides of me? Or should I show my other half instead of this one? It was like my halves were wrestling on stage to obtain the official title of I. El Mexicano or Americano, I felt I had to commit to one and risk losing the other in order to kill these fleas and end my detriment. Looking back, I risked losing a little bit more than that.

I briefly tried committing but staying with a single label was as debilitating and taxing as jumping between the two if not more. I noticed the perks of having two cultures, the exclusive benefits for persons like me. When I lost them, I noticed how valuable they were. I could speak two languages and serve as a bridge for my family to facilitate their lives. I heard twice as many jokes and could have twice as many friends. Additionally, choosing just one came with its disadvantages. There’s prejudice on both sides of the border towards each other. Committing to el Americano would mean some old peers would resent me and despise me. Similarly, I can think of a few people who would not be as inclined to meeting el Mexicano (Looking at you Trump). All of these nifty perks I risked for settling with a shall we say “limited bundle.” I realized subconsciously that choosing one side was perhaps not the best. I chose to embrace both wrestlers.

As time ran my two wrestlers continued their match. I made friends with only English speaking kids and only Spanish speaking kids. I felt compelled to help those who were in my shoes before me. I helped my family and friends translate phrases and documents and mail letters. I shared culture, I explained to my mom how Americans pronounce “o” instead of zero. The two of them became so entangled that they blended with one another. It is harder to distinguish between the two than before. Both of them, together; they feel like they make me whole. Today I am twenty years old and I wish I would have embraced my wrestlers sooner than what it took me. Mijo, sincerely give yourself a chance, build a bridge, and don't wait too long.

culture
Like

About the Creator

Salvador Bravado

I like to talk about weird shit and act weirder. If memes was a currency I would be rich.

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.