We were taught in school that history came from the East. That where we lived was vacant land, waiting to be discovered.

“What are you mixed with?”

This is an American question that fits the American paradigm.

I don’t have easy answers. Three of my grandparents were orphaned in one way or another. The stories get murky. The connections get tenuous. They get lightened with tales that align with the caste system Mexico inherited from the Catholic Church. Anything to be better than “Indio.”

Not even the DNA companies can figure us out. We are unknown data points; mixtures that have churned for century upon century upon century. Of oppressor and oppressed. Of reformer and reformed. Of crusader and crusaded.

My people came on boats with triangular sails. They came in dugouts. They came on horseback. They came on foot.

And me, I came from the West.