Not in my country, but ours
By Russell Burgos
It was astonishing. The greatest event on television that I can
recall since the one giant leap. Greater than Elvis from Hawaii.
Greater than the fall of Saigon. Greater even than the Academy
Awards.
It was a Pasadena City Council meeting.
At that meeting, debate raged over a proposed ordinance
restricting the sale of ammunition, particularly nine-millimeter
ammunition, fodder for the weapons of choice of young malfeasants,
assorted riff-raff, various low-lifes and NATO militaries. In a
city beset with gun violence, Police Chief Jerry Oliver suggested
that requiring identification of ammunition purchasers was a good
idea. Had ammunition buyers’ identities been known, suspects could
have been apprehended in the recent slaying of 16-year-old Gilda
Martinez.
But this is not astonishing. The gun debate is routine by now.
Neither was the Martinez shooting; young people slay each other
with mind-numbing regularity. What was astonishing was the reaction
of one City Council member to Chief Oliver’s suggestion. An African
American city councilman, whom one might suspect would support any
measure for reducing crime, particularly in minority wards.
Anyone who had purchased nine-millimeter ammunition could be a
suspect, Chief Oliver had noted. Anyone? Anyone.
"Not in my country!" thundered Councilman Isaac Richard,
hammering at the dais. "Not in my country!"
Not in my country. What an astonishing thing to say. Not, "not
in America," or "not in this country," or even "that’s
unconstitutional," but "not in my country."
Our country. All of us  black, brown, red, white, yellow.
What an astonishing concept in this age of hyper-sensitivity, of
hyphenated Americans of every description who claim persecution,
rights denial, fill-in-the-blank-ism  veritable cultural
genocide at the mere suggestion of an American identity, of a
melting pot, of a meeting of minds. Of our country.
We’re a nation of competitors in the ugliest sense of the word:
me against you, us against them, Hatfields against McCoys. Writers
in these pages have decried "Euro-centrism," noting that the
contributions of, say, Mexicans to California’s history has been
slighted. But who are Mexicans? Who were the Californios, the
original Spanish-speaking residents of the Southland? As USC
professor Kevin Starr writes, they were "part Indian, part African,
part Spanish descendants of soldiers." Whose soldiers? Spain’s.
They were European. And African. And Indian. But should that make a
difference? Should we engage in this cultural-historical game of
Scrabble, each trying to outdo the other with a genetic triple-word
score?
As we revisit affirmative action, as the university splinters
along sectarian lines, Beirut-in-the-Southland, these are valuable
questions to ask. Writers pro and con debate the merits of
"multiculturalism." But as Pete Hamill writes, the word itself is
an oxymoron. Culture is multicultural. In the old TV series,
"Taxi," a foreign visitor tells a waiter she wants "real" American
food. He offers her spaghetti, chop suey or kielbasa.
I’m multicultural. I’m the descendant of
Anglo-Scotch-Irish-French-Canadians. Of Dominican Republicans, who
were themselves descendants of Spaniards who were descendants of
Moors. I celebrate St. Patrick’s Day trapping furs, wearing a
beret, feasting on haggis and Bass Ale, all the while listening to
old flamenco records. I’m an American; a mutt, as the Bill
"Stripes." The wretched refuse.
Not in my country. How astonishing.
Burgos is a political science graduate student.