Extracts from To Be Frank Diego, a novel
By Dominic Carrillo
From Chapter 1
My name is Francisco. It’s Francisco Diego Rodriguez in full, but that was cut down to “Frank” a long time ago. The shortening of my name down to one easy syllable happened back in my 4th grade classroom at Immaculate Conception Catholic School.
I remember my teacher looking down at the class roster on the first day back from summer break. She squinted her blue shadowed eyelids in bewilderment as she said my name out loud. Her face appeared to express discomfort at saying my full name all at once, much less pronouncing any part of it correctly. It was okay, I suppose. I couldn't pronounce it much better myself. Though my name was as Mexican as they come, I had never learned how to speak Spanish. I remember my Mexican cousins used to ask me to say my full name to them just so they could laugh when it came out with my nasally vowels and anglicized Rs.
“You must be Spanish, young man,” the teacher said.
“No,” I replied, “I’m Mexican, I think."
I only added ‘I think’ because my ethnic identity had never been publicly called into question until that day. I added, ‘I think’ because I was taught not to talk back or get smart with adults, and this woman was my teacher—an authority. I added ‘I think’ because I wasn’t sure if I fit into one racial category or another.
My teacher’s eyes scrunched up again and her brow lowered in what appeared to be disbelief.
“I think you mean you’re Spanish,” she said, correcting me in front of the entire class.
“I’m pretty sure my dad has never said we’re Spanish.” I answered as politely as I could, “He says Mexican.”
“Well, you don’t look Mexican,” she said, as if it was a complimentary consolation; as if she was saving me from some kind of embarrassment or indignity in front of the rest of my mostly white classmates.
My teacher looked me up and down, maybe guessing that while my father could have been Mexican, my mother was probably white. My mom is white—a mix of German, Irish and English, which simply amounts to ‘white’ in the United States of America.
I was in the unique and confusing position of having to choose one ethnic identity that day in 4th grade. I chose Mexican, and I made that declaration to myself, my teacher, and to the entire class. But apparently my small stand didn’t matter. Unbeknownst to me, I was about to be officially mainstreamed into Frank; de-cultured Frank; simple and safe Frank.
“Okay then Fran-see-sco,” she struggled, “—may I just call you Frank?”
“Yeah,” I said. I was a kid. I wasn’t about to be directly defiant and say ‘No’ to my teacher—especially not on the first day of school. I also said ‘Yeah’ because I had no idea I would turn into Frank for the rest of my life.
That teacher's name was Ms. Fernandez—Megan Fernandez if I remember correctly. She had bleached blonde hair with darker brown roots, and she couldn’t even pronounce her own last name with the right accent—kind of like me. I guessed she was half-Mexican too, but might have been ashamed to admit it.
Like many others, including myself, Ms. Fernandez took the easy road and called me ‘Frank’ for the rest of the school year. It stuck with my teachers and friends, then gradually sunk in with my family too.
But that little scene happened over twenty years ago.
For whatever reason, it was the first thing I thought about as I entered the kitchen in my parents’ house. It was around 10 a.m. I was 33 years old. It was the beginning of the day that my life dramatically changed, and the last time anyone has called me Frank.
From Chapter 7: Go Aztecs!
As I made it to the bottom of the escalator at the nearly empty SDSU trolley stop, I noticed a large black and red banner with the new school mascot on it that said:
Go Aztecs!
It reminded me of the first and only time I was ever on television. My fifteen seconds of fame. It happened during the big controversy over the SDSU mascot back when I was in college. It had to do with the human version of the Aztec mascot ‘looking Mexican’ or not. Of course, the state university was very concerned with accuracy. After all, the school mascot took its name from Mexican warriors who had fought against Spanish invaders almost two thousand miles south of San Diego, in a vastly different geographic and cultural setting—but that was beside the point.
“Go Kumeyaay!” didn’t sound as cool.
So, the image of the mascot had evolved over the years—from a baton-twirling white cheerleader in Sioux Indian headdress to a darker-skinned, Roman-nosed, male Aztec profile. The problem was that the human incarnation of the mascot, who ran around at sporting events and blew out of a conch shell and yelledGo Aztecs!,had not similarly evolved. He was a muscular, spray-tanned white guy in a cheap imitation Aztec costume.
That’s when some concerned students, mostly those of Mexican descent, decided to challenge the white Aztec. The university was receptive to them, most certainly because they were so concerned with historical accuracy—and public relations. A lot of people who called themselves a variety of things for a variety of reasons—Mexican, Latino(a), Chicano(a), Hispanics and Others— protested publicly, speaking on the news about the injustice of it all. That’s when I had my fifteen seconds of TV fame.
I was walking by the Channel 8 news crew on campus when a reporter with a wireless microphone, big fake smile, and a distracting amount of foundation on his face approached me.
“Excuse me young man, can I get a quote from you about the mascot controversy?” he asked.
“Sure.” I said. I was caught off guard and somewhat detached from the mainstream debate, but not about to pass up an opportunity to be on local television.
“Ok. Let’s roll here,” he said to the cameraman, then used his index finger to comb back his eyebrows. He took a deep breath and put on his best anchor voice:
“Good evening, San Diego. Live here on SDSU’s campus, talking to students about the enormous controversy ignited over the university’s mascot.” Then he turned to me and asked:
“What do you think about the race or ethnicity of the Aztec mascot?”
“Well, which one,” I asked back, “Raceor ethnicity?”
“Oh, race, I suppose,” he answered, noticeably irked.
“To be honest, I try to avoid racial categorization if possible,” I said.
“May I ask you what your racial background is? Are you Mexican, white…?”
“Uh, I’m both.” I said.
“Huh. So I suppose that puts you somewhere in the middle, eh?” the reporter asked.
“Well, yeah, I guess it’s confused me off and on throughout my life,” I said, “but I don’t think it has any real bearing on my view about the school’s mascot. It has a lot more to do with history—”
I must have used the word ‘bearing’ to try to sound sophisticated on TV. I remember thinking that the issue wasn't so simple, yet I was ready to explain my whole perspective on the matter. Too bad I was sharply cut off at ‘history.’
That’s when the reporter lowered the microphone, sighed, disingenuously smiled at me, shook his head a little, and walked toward his crew. I guess I didn't interview well, I thought. I remember seeing myself that night on the news. My fifteen seconds looked and felt more infamous than famous. They’d edited my part down to only my first response—a stunted blurb that made me sound like an apolitical, apathetic frat boy. I felt I’d been misrepresented.
But several weeks after the news articles and campus protests and such, the university committee decided to ensure that the next human version of the Aztec mascot, when competing with others of equal yelling and conch-blowing ability, should be darker-skinned, and preferably of Central American indigenous descent.Go Aztecs!
That banner dominated the huge wall of the nearly-vacant trolley terminal, almost obscuring a smaller, official looking sign that read: “This Area For Ticket Holding Passengers Only.”
Jesus Christ, I hadn't bought a ticket yet!
At that moment, I heard light rail noise coming from the tunnel on my left. Standing on the yellow line that I wasn't supposed to cross over, I peered down the tunnel and saw the lights from the trolley. I turned around and scanned the area for a ticket-dispensing machine. Nothing. The ticket machine must have been on the street level—up the escalators, around the corner, and up another flight of stairs. If I went upstairs to buy a ticket, I’d be waiting another 45 minutes for the next train. And I didn't want to sit there and waste time.
The bright red trolley glided into the terminal. As it slowed down I looked through its windows. The entire train was occupied by less than a dozen people, and I didn't see anyone inside who looked like a uniformed conductor.
The doors slid open and made a futuristic beeping sound. The future is now. Nobody else was around to ask about tickets. Would anyone even check to see if I had one? Couldn't I just buy a ticket on board if it became an issue? Public transit wasn't exactly my field of expertise. Then the trolley door made another soft beeping noise, warning me that I had no time for internal debate.
I bolted toward the sliding doors, slipped in, and grabbed a silver handrail. I realized I was holding it too tightly as the trolley left the station. The movement was not as abrupt as I’d expected. It was surprisingly smooth—as I had assumed the rest of my trip to PB would be.
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| Dominic Carrillo |
Dominic Carrillo is a teacher and freelance writer from San Diego, California. He’s taught 4th through 12th grade subjects, history at Grossmont College and won awards for his blogs since 2008. To Be Frank Diego is his debut novel: it takes the reader on a daylong journey through San Diego’s spotty public transit system, with stops en route labeled cultural identity and failed relationships. Carrillo is working on a second novel, titled “Americano Abroad.” To buy To Be Frank Diego, go tohttp://www.tobefrankdiego.com/ or Amazon.com.