LSA News

No. 96, March 2009

David Landázuri: Neither Here Nor There
(continued)

Siblings Margarita, Carmen Monica, Gabriel and 8-month-old David

My brother Roberto has referred to us "Martians in Mayberry" — we were that different. We were the only Hispanic family in town. I know of one half-Japanese family, one half-Jewish family, but no blacks — I think there may still have been a "sundown" law on the books. There weren't even that many Catholics in what was a predominantly a Protestant town. I personally wasn't aware of any discrimination against us, but I think we were somewhat insulated by my father's professional status as a physician — there were very few doctors in town (less than five, and not all of them practicing).

Occasionally, our difference did bother me, like when my parent spoke Spanish to us around our gringo friends, specifically so they wouldn't know what was being said, or when my friends were allowed a lot more freedom than my strict parents allowed us. However, I did feel special and culturally enriched by our sophisticated, loving and affluent parents. We were close, and had our private jokes. For instance, bilingual wordplay such as "Donde dice SALE, entre!" — "Where it says go out ('sale'), go in!" or the name of the nearest big city (Peoria, which elsewhere is a synonym for Hicksville, and which in Spanish might translate literally into "worseness"). However, I didn't learn the very useful word "booger" until I started school; at home, we just used the word "mocos" (that is "mucus").

David and Roberto with cousin Laurita in Ecuador

Both my parents remained close to their families in Ecuador, and relatives often came for extended stays, just as we occasionally visited Ecuador. If I sometimes felt out of place in the United States, I learned even more what it was like to be an outsider when Roberto and I spent the Summer of Love (1967) in Ecuador. Our Beatle haircuts and mod attire really set us apart. Where did we belong? We weren't exactly gringos. I think it was my Aunt Lourdes who suggested the term "grindio", which combines "gringo" with "indio" ("Indian").

My father was a very gregarious man who always took a special interest in helping Latin American colleagues, and he knew most of the Latin American physicians in the region. In fact, he had helped many of them (as well as two of my mother's siblings) with their transition to the U.S. Many of these people came to the spectacular New Year's Eve parties we had, punctuated at midnight by the singing of the Ecuadorian national anthem, accompanied by the inevitable tears of the expatriates. Auld Lang Syne and other anthems were sung, but Ecuadorians ruled the roost. Then the younger generation, some of whom were experiencing drunkenness for the first time, took over the dance floor with rock & roll.

Back row, left to right: Margarita, Gabriel, Carmen Monica. Front row: Roberto Dario, Maria Laura, David

In 1974, my parents moved to Chicago. By then only my little sister was still at home, and the rest of us were either in college or already graduated. My parents were more comfortable in an urban area, where there were Spanish language media, stores and culture.

In college, I used to tell people that my ethnicity was a mixture of Spanish grandee and Inca demi-god. The Inca part is probably wishful thinking, and for that matter so is the grandee part. I think more than anything else, the statement reflects my privileged upbringing (not to mention delusions of grandeur).

Despite common (mis)usage, America is not just the United States, as my Ecuadorian cousins did not fail to inform me. To be honest, my parents were not free from racism or snobbery. South America has its own history of prejudice and inequality. My family name, Landázuri, is Basque (from northern Spain), and translates as "white field". My mother told me that they chose my first name, David, because it is spelled the same way in English and Spanish. Her family probably had its roots in southern Spain. David is of course a Hebrew name, and means "beloved". Plenty of Jews in Europe were forced to convert to Christianity, and it's probably at least as likely that there's a Jew in the woodpile as an Inca. "No soy de aquí, ni soy de allá", as the old song has it: "I am neither from here or there". Whatever: I love my heritage, whether real, imagined or assumed.

Roberto and David, 1967

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