You Know My Steez

The other night on Sports Center, the guy whose profession it is to follow baseball pronounced it “Youruhbay.” Where Juan Uribe was born, the accent is not on the first syllable, and most certainly not pronounced the way it was on television. I take issue with this because sometimes it sticks, as is the case with Mets pitcher? reliever? reluctant minor leaguer?- Oliver Perez. Normally his last name is obvious- like Smith, or Johnson, or even efffing Mozart. However, because the announcers anglicize it to stress the second syllable, an otherwise simple name is now tantamount to Van Gogh.

We are a nation of immigrants, people. Hardly anyone can say their ancestors were born in the United States. Even the first pioneers were once immigrants. That said, our country is full of heroic moments as well as savage ones. If you’re family was part of the founding of the U.S. proper, you got a lot of Thanksgiving to do.

And this, coming from a Waspy European Mutt.

When I was in Elementary school, I lied to my friends about being a foreigner. I literally created this elaborate ruse that I was French because my mother gave birth on a plane from France (impossible, considering FAA regulations, not to mention my mother’s travel schedule). I was so envious of my exotic Indian- American friend Carishma and my closest friend Michelle, whose parents left China, that I had to compete on the Interesting Factor. Ambiguously White was not going to cut it.

By the time we hit Junior High School, I remember wanting to be unique so badly that I was confused when Chinese-American Michelle thwarted a bully by insisting she was “American.” After gym class she was asked- ironically by a black girl- “What exactly are you?” Michelle responded defiantly, “I’m American.” If it had been me, I would have emphasized the fact that my parents came here from a distant country, but Michelle hadn’t taken the bait. In retrospect, she had a arrived to that scene with different emotional baggage.

And she was right. She was essentially an American- born here, perfectly bilingual (she understood her parents Mandarin but spoke back in impeccable English, and always had a better vocabulary than I did). On the other hand, I was envious of the traditions her parents had (and the savory rice dishes made fresh every night that have spoiled any restaurant for me since).

That’s why I’m certifiably flumoxed when I read about these immigration laws in Arizona, or when I hear about a debate over multilingual ATMs. I sometimes don’t know what country I live in. Are we really that culturally isolated? Thank goodness, in reality, we aren’t.

Forget the excuse of drug wars just over the Mexican border. A few months ago, a border patrol officer shot a Mexican teenager. There has to be a more effective way to target specific crimes, not chalk everything up to immigration. Or worse, conveniently overlook illegal immigration when that is profitable. Drugs are bad, Mkay. But so is the exploitation of undocumented workers.  The market fluctuations that make North Americans fear a loss of jobs most wouldn’t take in the first place are the same reasons drugs are car jumped profitably across those-soon-to-be-walled borders.

I hate that I sound like a pundit, but the debate around immigration reform reeks of thinly veiled racism. I was lucky to grow up in a city that is particularly special because it is a melting pot- or a salad bowl- which was oddly the subject of a history exam I took in high school. Thank you, New York, for welcoming the tired, the poor (though not really in Manhattan), the huddled masses yearning to breathe free, and letting them work and even build great businesses that continue to enrich our City.