Sobre Heroes y Hamburguesas
From "Sunshine/Noir III: Writing from San Diego and Tijuana" (City Works Press, 2025)
By Alejandra Lucero Canaán
I was considered, for all intents and purposes, an international student. Nevermind that I had, by that point in my life, spent 5 years as a student in an American school. True, I lived in the “ugly” part of San Diego at the time, Tijuana, but if you just saw me walking down around the Chula Vista mall wearing Aeropostale top to bottom, listening to the Plain White T’s in my ipod and texting about the latest Naruto episode release, you would’ve never guessed where I really hailed from. An alien in foreign land. A Mexican-Mexican with a lost accent, a penchant for crying and in that fabledjourney we all know as the “American Dream.”
Well, at SDSU, what did it mean to be an international student? In the US, what did it mean? It meant that you had somehow proven you were wealthy enough and had sufficient ties to your home country that you would not need to work while in the US, receive any type of financial aid (scholarships included) nor make any plans to stay permanently in the US. I am not sure what type of Mexican brujeria my papi did with his bank account that he tricked the US government about our finances. But he tricked them good, and I was able to successfully infiltrate the hordes of fake-blonde first year students dressed in uggs and juicy couture soft sweats that were pledging some sorority I had never even heard of. Maybe it’s generous to use the word “infiltrated,” but I did successfully start attending SDSU in the fall of 2007.
Though as I mentioned, international students were not eligible for scholarships, SDSU did have one program that supported us with a little spending change. Through the International Student Office, you could join their Ambassador program. For a few hundred buck’s stipend, you were trained and coached on how to represent your country and culture to American youth across San Diego county (read: predominantly white schools around and north of the 8). This visionary program promised to help you work on your leadership skills, public speaking and intercultural communication in exchange for your cultural wealth. No, you would not be indoctrinating these young kids in your country’s brand of socialism or make casual critiques about American imperialism, but you could, for one hour, helpthem imagine a world they would never see but might, one day, own part of. At least such is the case for the growing gringofication all across the most “magical” pueblos of Mexico.
During our orientation, when we had the opportunity of meeting our host teachers, we were told we could bring food from our native homelands, if they could be found. “But don’t make it yourself!” said a past Ambassador. “American parents like labels, so they can check if their child can consume that item. You know, because of allergies.” Great. I wasn’t about to cook anything for anyone, but I could ask my parents to buy a bag of some of my favorite candy to share. It would be individually packaged. It would clearly state ingredients, and I, of course, would explain them as well.
I’m assigned Lemon Avenue Elementary in the foreign land of La Mesa. The two teachers I’m working with are nice.One is stocky and reserved. The other is tall and
artsy. We exchange pleasantries and make plans for my classroom visit. They’re so excited to have me.
In a lot of ways, growing up in a Border town is a strange experience. Especially, maybe for those in my generation, the generation growing up with the development of globalization, when the United States was truly an abstraction for the majority of Mexicans. Also, a shadow. An unknown darkness. Riches. Dólares. Death. During that time for me and mysiblings “el otro lado” was more like our backyard. We spoke “funny” to our cousins, who lived almost on the other end of Mexico, and made our aunts furious that we would teach them Spanglish vocabulary like “curada” (for cool) and that we used “OK” instead of “sí” for the affirmative.
Crossing into San Diego was, at least before 9/11, nearly effortless. I spent my fair share of time in Chula Vista, at the mall or on 3rd Avenue, in San Ysidro and Imperial Beach or Plaza Bonita, with its really mesmerizing black fountain. Though I did not identify as “American” (after all, I could not partake in the most bewitching ritual of all… uttering the words “American Citizen” when crossing the border, like so many of my friends did), I felt like I knew it pretty well. Burgers, movie explosions and a sense of cleanliness, safety and order that I admired was how this foreign land worked. And in my America, there were still so many Mexicans. My parents, who were relatively fluent in English,were still able to converse with the cashier at Target in Spanish. When I had to buy a dress for my friend’s quinceañera, we went to a Mexican seamstress in Chula Vista. I still remember seeing the Ingles Sin Barreras commercial playing on her TV while I waited for my dress. The back and forth felt right.
Of course, I didn’t think much of whether or not San Diegans crossed south; although I knew la Revu was for gringos.But I imagined that my small reach as a child was a good representation of life at the border. Though the hamburgers tasted better north, the tacos were better by my house. Why wouldn’t there be a true and equal cultural exchange?
I had never really heard of La Mesa, certainly never been there. When my dad drove me, I had a bag of obleas con cajeta from the brand “Las Sevillanas.” This is still today a delightful favorite candy treat. They’re wafers made like theones you eat at mass with a cajeta filling; in other words, a type of caramel sauce made with goat’s milk. I brought a small variety, so each kid could have one. Each wrapped individually, so the parents could read the ingredients for allergies.
The white school with white teachers and white students greeted me warmly. I talked about Mexico. I mentioned food Iliked and cultural traditions that sounded cool. I did not speak about the political problems of the time, or of the poverty, or of the violence. I mentioned a few significant holidays, and I talked about my family. Though I was not yet the seasoned public speaker I am now, I was charismatic and confident. I felt self-assured in my knowledge and happy to bespeaking about my country. I cracked a few jokes and enjoyed the connections I had made with these children. Did I make a good impression? So I thought. Did I teach the kids anything? Who knows. But everyone was thrilled to get one piece of candy from Mexico.
I carefully explained what they were getting.
“These are wafers filled with cajeta, or a type of caramel-like sauce made of goats’ milk.” I’m holding them like the priest does at church. My fingers gently around the bottom of the wafer as my arm rises up to show this magical, foreign treat.
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Everyone grins as they receive their one oblea con cajeta. The teacher smileswidely. I’m elated. One tiny hero's journey achieved for this little Mexican alien.
I did this presentation twice in two different classrooms in the same school and handed out that candy freely and withoutissue. Not much else was said, and I got my money for the year and that was it.
The following year, feeling so confident in my propaganda skills, I applied again. And, again, I was selected a second year for the same ambassadorship. At that time, though perhaps things have changed since, I did not receive feedback on my first year of presentations–the students didn’t write thank you cards, the teachers did not submit any survey answers about what they liked or wanted– so when I earned the ambassadorship again, I was beaming with pride and joy. What a good little spokesperson I was.
Not much in organization changed from one year to the next, so I excitedly attended the orientation training, where I seethe teachers I had been assigned last year. I don’t know if they recognize me, although they do give me a quick side eye of sorts, but I’m a person with a lot of anxiety, and I’m shy. I’m sure it’s just me. The day’s agenda continues.
At some point, the organizers are discussing that they have returning ambassadors (everyone cheers for me). As they walk around and start letting people know who they’re paired up with, they get to me. Sloane tells me that they hadoriginally paired me up with my school from last year, but that they had requested a different country to be represented.
“It’s not a problem. Schools want to get a variety of international students for their classes. So we placed you in an Elementary in Lakeside. It’ll be a 1st grade class!”
“Great!” I’m not worried; although I have no idea where Lakeside is. This year, I have my own car. I am sure I will find wherever it is that I am called to be at.
The day is almost over, and now we’re going over expectations for the presentation, including bringing some regional food, if the students are able to get it. A hand rises so quick, it pulls the air and attention of the entire room to them. It’sone of the teachers I visited last year.
“I think we should do without food this year. You see, what happened in my school last year, is that a student brought some candy from Mexico, and the parents googled its ingredients and found out it had goats’ blood in it. They caused atremendous uproar. It was hard to settle them down. Maybe it’s best we don’t bring food, even if it’s packaged and labeled.”
My ears pop. I can feel my face getting hot. That was me and my candy. Nobody knows it’s me and my candy, but it feels like all eyes are on me. How could that misunderstanding have happened when I was so clear and correct on the details?
Sloane quickly looks around the room to her co-workers, confused. Only looks are exchanged. After a beat, she answers,
“Oh. Oh… OK. Let’s do that, then. No food, please!” Said Sloane. “Moving on…”
That’s all I got. Sloane doesn’t check in on me afterwards. The teachers from Lemon Elementary never approach me to talk about the event in more detail. I move into my next set of classrooms without food and without any sense of confidence. I get through my presentations as quickly as I can. I don’t even prepare for them as much as I just show up, empty-handed and ready to leave. I don’t feel as good anymore. If they had any sort of feedback loop, they would’ve known I did not do a good job. But they don’t. Or maybe it doesn’t matter if they know because I do not apply for theAmbassadorship a third time. I don’t want to be an Ambassador ever again.
A year later, I have to return to the International Student Office one more time for some paperwork. I don’t want to bethere. I cannot forget. But I have something to sign or get figured out for application to graduate school. I get in. The room is empty, dark. It still echoes that moment of anguish and loneliness. I get out. I run to my car. I never go back.
To buy Sunshine/Noir III: Writing from San Diego and Tijuana, go here