“No N------s, Mexicans, or dogs allowed!”  These words were on a sign outside a grocery store in Littlefield, Texas, so my wife told me. As a young American Hispanic girl, my wife, and her parents, were migrant workers in the early 1950s. Luckily, one of the migrant workers who saw the unwelcoming sign stopped her from entering the grocery store. Though, I as an American Hispanic endured many discriminatory practices here in Fort Worth during those years, those words on that sign in Littlefield, Texas still rankle me.

Now in our 70s, my wife and I, and at times with our Hispanic friends our age or older, discuss the many trials and tribulations we experienced with the then allowed practices of discrimination and racism in our younger days. Though I will not deny that blacks were discriminated more brutally than American Hispanics, we took our punches right along with them.  Here, I must admit that other American immigrants (Jews, Irish, Italian, Polish) also met harsh treatment by their fellow Americans.  And these folks were not black, nor brown, mind you.  They, in most part were Caucasian.

Having been raised in a predominately Hispanic community in North Fort Worth, where the residents were mostly legal Mexican immigrants and first generation Americans like me, there existed a pride among Hispanics of being of Mexican ancestry.  I cannot count the many fiestas in my barrio (neighborhood) I attended celebrating Mexico’s independence from France on “Cinco de Mayo” (May 5th) and again on Mexico’s independence from Spain, which is celebrated on September 15.  As a young kid I really enjoyed those fiestas.  I remember the 1400 block of North Commerce was blocked and Hispanic homeowners would put up all types of booths where Mexican delicacies were sold to benefit our San Jose Catholic Church located at the end of the block.

In front of my old parish church, two flat bed trailers would be parked and parishioners would decorate them with green, white, and red (Mexico’s flag colors) flowers and crepe paper where the fiesta queen would be crowned. Most often, fiesta organizers would get Spanish radio disc jockeys and the Consul from Mexico to give narratives of Mexico’s history.  After the speakers finished their historical speeches on Mexico’s independence struggles, they would lead the crowd in a shouting frenzy, “Viva Mexico, viva la independencia!” (“Long live Mexico, long live independence!”) I still remember the loud shots coming from the crowd, “Viva Mexico, viva Mexico!”  Hearing the shouts from the crowd praising Mexico, I’d ask myself, “If Mexico is so dear to these folks, and a great place to live, why are these people here in the United States?  If Mexico is such a great country, why did these folks along with my grandparents and dad left it?”  Folks, even as a kid, I just didn’t get it.

During my boyhood days, our country was engaged in World War II.  I remember my Dad, along with Mom’s brothers, were drafted into the Armed Forces.  Dad was drafted into the Navy and ended up as a gunner in an aircraft carrier. Mom’s brothers, Uncle Joe and Uncle James were inducted in the Army.  Uncle Joe received the Purple Heart after being wounded in the Philippines.  My Uncle James ended up in Africa chasing “The Desert Fox,” Erwin Rommel.

There is an episode pertaining to discrimination that I will forever remember.  It is personally a painful story.  It pertains to my Uncle Joe who, after finishing his boot camp training, was given a leave before being shipped overseas.  It was during this time that he took me to the movies. After leaving the theater, Uncle Joe asked me if I was hungry and I told him that I was. Close to the Palace Theater was The Clover Inn restaurant.  As we sat down at a table, the restaurant manager came to us and told Uncle Joe that he could not serve us because we were Mexicans.  Folks, I cans still see the anger, disbelief, and humiliation in Uncle Joe’s face as he rose to his feet -- in his U.S. Army uniform. I just don’t believe there are any words in the dictionary to adequately describe that manager’s callous discriminatory act.

Many of you are wondering if I, who not only felt the sting of racism, but also witnessed what was done to my Uncle Joe, could have any love whatsoever for this country we call the United States of America.  Honestly speaking, I do.  Though many white Americans treated me unfairly, many more were exceptional kind to me.  My teachers, employers, fellow workers, mostly all white were extremely accepting of me.

As a Catholic I think that if I had lived during the Reformation, I probably would have supported Martin Luther.  Let’s face it; the Popes during that era were evil.  Having said that, it wasn’t the church that was bad, it was those who ruled it. As with the United States, in that it is not the country that is bad or evil, but those who governed it.  In my opinion all the discrimination many Americans endured in years past can be attributed to the gutless and racist politicians, lawmen, lawyers, judges, who didn’t enforce the laws our Founding Fathers wrote in the Constitution and Bill of Rights.

Finally, and this is for those who support the hate-laced words of Rev. Jeremiah Wright, Senator Obama’s pastor.  I must remind the Reverend and those who think like him, that during the turbulent civil unrest in the South in the 1950s, like in Selma, Alabama and Philadelphia, Mississippi, scores of white students, clergymen, nuns, and FBI men protested side by side with blacks to fight for their voting and civil rights.  Many whites, supporting blacks, were beaten, raped, and killed by the Klan.  Sorry to point this out to Senator Obama’s supporters, I’m not your typical American Hispanic.

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