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From Irish To Mexican, A Short Walk

From Irish To Mexican, A Short Walk

Navarrette Nation Substack — Issue #0079 (March 17, 2025)

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Ruben Navarrette
Mar 18, 2025
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From Irish To Mexican, A Short Walk
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Critical Thinking At A Critical Time

[Every Monday]

3177 words; 30 min read

Monologue —

Saints alive! I’ve always admired the Irish. Because they get to have their Irish soda bread, and eat it too. In fact, I’m green with envy.

As long as I’ve been in the arena — spouting opinion, analysis and commentary — I’ve had to put up with racists and nativists who get in my face and demand that I make a choice. Am I Mexican, or American?

Both, I say. I’m Mexican-American.

That really sets people off. What sets me off is people who don’t mind their own business.

The patron saint of the hyphen haters is former President Theodore Roosevelt, who insisted that a hyphenated American was “not an American at all.”

Since Roosevelt’s Dutch ancestors crossed the Atlantic, and most of mine never crossed a border as much as a border crossed them, I take what he had to say with a grain of salt — and a dollop of salsa.

About a decade ago, a reader wrote: “You are no more of a Mexican American than I am American Indian, Irish and German American. I am an American. Please join me in becoming an American.”

Another said: “What part of you is Mexican? Do you own any allegiance to Mexico? Just wondering why you refer to yourself as a Mexican-American. American has no color or nationality in front of it.”

Another said: “You can refer to yourself as an American of Mexican heritage as I refer to myself as an American of Irish heritage vs. an Irish-American. For me being American comes first.”

Me too. “American” also comes first in my book. From now on, you may refer to me as an “American-Mexican.” I won’t let go of my ethnic heritage. It matters too much to me.

And, for the most part, the same is true of my friends who can trace their lineage to the Emerald Isle. That Irish reader might be an anomaly — at least he would be in Boston, or New York, or Chicago. In those places, being Irish still actually means something.

And not just on St. Patrick’s Day.

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