You betrayed us, pendejos

I saw something on Bluesky yesterday. It was a response to this article on Raw Story. This was what she said:

I'm not going to lie. At first I was hurt, because of all we've been going through here in Los Angeles. 

But then I thought about it more. And I can't fault her. Not in the least. It hurt. But as the kids say, the  truth hurts. And this is the God's-honest truth.

I remember Election Night. I was in conversation with our Rational Left as the exit polling began to drop. And the first poll he showed me was of Latin men going for Donald Trump by ten points. 

I didn't want to believe it. How could we have gone from massive support for Joe Biden to this?

But, of course, I'm Latino. I know my people well.

Out of misogyny, out of racism, Latin men took a gamble on Trump. And even now, if this poll is to be believed, it's not the rendition of their undocumented brothers and sisters which disturbs them, but the state of the economy. The economy?! When we're being torn apart as a community in this land which will always hold us as foreign, no matter our skin color?!

My God. You betrayed me. You betrayed our community. You betrayed our mothers, our sisters, our daughters. You surrendered them up to the tender mercies of an avowed racist and hater of Latins. Why? Because you thought you were white? Because our community has yet to deal with our own entrenched racism and misogyny? (I'm Cuban. As I've always said, I can tell you stories.)

Because of your vote, I have to worry if La Migra is going to charge into my library. Because of your vote, my gardener, and so many others, have disappeared. Because of your gamble of being "near-white", you sundered our alliances with the Black community. I don't blame Nefarious Means for feeling this way. I don't blame any Black person from holding that opinion. My cohort fucked up, and fucked up badly. In the time of peril, when one had to make a decision, we chose wrongly and badly. We chose old prejudices over current reality. We sundered ourselves from a common front. And just like the rest of the world will not be quick to rebuild their ties with the United States after we extirpate this cancer, those who, as the kids say, been knew will not be eager to rebuild their alliances with us. 

I don't understand it. Men who are regularly called "spics" and "beaners" threw in their lot with those who used those pejoratives. Yes, a minority of Black men voted for Trump. But they're a lost tribe, stewing in toxic masculinity. The majority joined their Black sisters in saying no to this evil. And according to the exit polling from the graphic which heads this piece, 60% of Latinas understood the assignment. I am filled with nothing but shame when I think about how Latin men voted. It is a betrayal as gross as those of the soldiers in the Afghan Army who melted away at the advance of the Taliban and gave up Afghan women to slavery. It was cowardly, and not how I was raised by my gentle but morally firm father.

Perhaps, at some point, we can earn our way back into the alliance. But it will be a long road. The betrayal is great. We had a choice, and we chose disastrously. And this wounds my soul. My preconceived notions were shattered that night. I can't excuse it, and I can't forget it. When the time came for us to step up, to protect ourselves and our community, we failed miserably. And this will be a shame I will carry to my grave.

Postscript

When I knew I was a spic.

Summer of 1985. New York City. I was fifteen. Both my brothers had had jobs at my age. So I wanted to make some summer money.

I went to Trump Plaza, thinking of going to shops to put in applications. I, child of Washington Heights, had never been to a mall. All we needed was within a five-block radius, or we took the train down to 34th Street and Macy's.

I wandered around for a bit. Be aware that this was 1985, I was from the Heights, and I was a child of my time. I was in all my b-boy fabulousness. Le Tigre shirt, Lee jeans, and Adidas with the fat, colored laces.

I was just about to enter a store when I was swarmed by three security officers. All they told me was, "You have to leave."

I left. I left with a haste. I didn't even question it. Because I thought of what my parents, immigrants, would suffer if I resisted. I left, shame and anger and hatred seeping down to my cells. I left, my first foray out of my world hatefully rebuffed.

That was when I knew I was a spic. I never told this to my parents, or my brothers. I tell it now.

Mis hermanos y hermanas latinos. We ain't like them. They ain't like us. And we will never be them. Learn this lesson.