Hunger of Memory pgs. 114-173

In the fourth chapter of Hunger of Memory, Complexion, I found Rodriguez’s comments about the color of his skin quite compelling. Being raised by a mother to whom “Dark skin…was the most important symbol of a life of oppressive labor and poverty” (127), the author grew to be ashamed of his very dark complexion and the stereotype of poverty he carried with it. Even though Rodriguez grew up in a middle-class family, he feels that his dark skin was a barrier between himself and the world of los gringos. I thought it was especially intriguing, however, at the end of the chapter when the author describes himself in the present world as an economically successful man whose skin has become a “mark of…leisure;” the author eventually realized that his “skin, in itself, means nothing,” and it is rather the economic and social environment of his life that gives the color of his skin any meaning (148).
    Understanding this about Rodriguez has helped me understand a little more about skin color in a broad sense. Oftentimes in the modern world, as the author states, the color of one’s skin has little to say about significant advantages or disadvantages that person may face in his or her life. Factors such as social and economic status weigh much more heavily on someone’s life than the ethnicity with which they were born. That being said, Rodriguez’s statement that “no one would regard [his] complexion the same way if [he] entered through the service entrance” seems especially true (148). The clothes that cover his skin tell more of his luxurious lifestyle than the man’s skin alone.
    Further on in the memoir the author approaches the word Chicano, meaning Mexican-American in both Spanish and English. Affirmative action movements took the formerly Mexican slang word and transformed it into a “public word, animated by pride and political purpose” (170). Reading this about Rodriguez’s memories of Chicano, I was reminded of my own. Several years ago my family and I attended the 90th birthday party of my great-aunt Josephina Quesada Alvarez, full-blooded Mexican sister of my full-blooded Mexican grandpa. Although I have rarely interacted with the woman in my life (as that side of my family lives far from mine, in Arizona), I will always remember that occasion for the long speech she gave about the word Chicano. After blowing out the candles on her cake, while she still had all eyes on her, she made us young family members sit at her feet as she explained to us the importance of knowing the meaning of Chicano, Chicana. Listening to her passionately declare the pride Mexican-Americans possess was my first experience coming to terms with the struggles my Mexican family had to deal with to receive a fair education in the United States. While her and my great-uncle Eugene went on to work for Arizona State University (she an admissions officer, he a professor of Art), it was not without a great effort to overcome the negative biases held by those around them. And while I, today, cannot remember what she said that day, I know it is important to remember that nothing in this country comes without a lot of hard work, whether it has been done for me by my ancestors or whether I will to do the work myself. In that I feel connected to Rodriguez’s exploration of his cultural identity.