About a month ago, I went out walking through our neighborhood. It was so overcast it was almost dark. The wind had picked up to the point where I began to feel nervous. But I had to get out.

I walked all the way to a nearby stone staircase that leads down to a river. There I saw a young woman with two little girls running in circles and pulling each other down on the asphalt. The little girls greeted me as I approached the staircase. I sat down on the ledge and greeted the mother.

We got to talking about motherly things when all of a sudden she said, “Y’ know, there are a lot of white women who pretend they don’t know me public.”

The statement seemed to come out of nowhere. Since I didn’t know how to respond, I just stood there, making the situation even more uncomfortable than it already was.

“They say ‘hi’ to me when no one is looking but when they pass by in their cars, they don’t even look at people like me.”

I realized that by “people like me” she meant people with indigenous traits.

I used to naively think that there was very little racism in Mexico. Sure, I knew there were problems in Chiapas, but I never imagined that the classism and racism ran as deep as they do.

Here, at least in the region where I live, people are classified into two groups: güeros and morenos. Los güeros are the light-skinned, light-haired folk and los morenos are those with darker complexions. When you walk down the street, you are identified by your corresponding classification.

“Ése mi moreno.”
“Güerita… güerita…”

When my son was born, he was born with a full head of thick, black hair and dark eyes. People would say things to me like, “Oh. It’s too bad he didn’t get your hair and eyes.” Now that he has lighter hair, women are always commenting on how lovely his hair is and that they’ve always wanted a little, blonde baby. Then they say, with true pity in their voices, “It’s too bad about his eyes, though.”

Not long ago I ran into the mother of the two girls again. Her daughter, wanting to play with my son, started taking the hood of his jacket off his head. He laughed harder each time she did it. Her mom, in her best baby voice possible said, “ooh güero, you want to show off your hair right? Your blonde hair.” Then she pointed to her own daughter, “Tell her, ‘Ugly. Ugly girl.’”

For more on racism in Mexico, check out this article by Global Exchange.