{"id":117745,"date":"2017-11-06T13:00:51","date_gmt":"2017-11-06T18:00:51","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=117745"},"modified":"2017-11-06T15:29:23","modified_gmt":"2017-11-06T20:29:23","slug":"mexican-american-bandit","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/11\/06\/mexican-american-bandit\/","title":{"rendered":"The Mexican American Bandit"},"content":{"rendered":"

Good artists imitate; great artists steal. In our new series, Stolen, writers share stories of theft.<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Still from the animated short Zimbo\u00a0<\/em>by the Guadalajaran directors Rita Basulto and Juan Jos\u00e9 Medina.<\/p><\/div>\n

My ex-wife stared as she watched my maternal grandmother slide a chicken into her purse. When she noticed she was being watched, my grandmother locked eyes with my ex-wife. In her thick Guadalajara accent, my grandmother bellowed, \u201cFor the dogs.\u201d Her dogs were waiting outside of the buffet, in her truck. It was Mother\u2019s Day and they were her most beloved.<\/p>\n

On our way home, my ex-wife asked, \u201cHave you seen your grandmother steal meat before?\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked at her with a deadpan expression meant to approximate the one my grandmother had given her.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019s Mexican,\u201d I answered.<\/p>\n

My grandmother\u2019s habit of filling her purse with meat reinforces an American stereotype: that Mexicans are thieves. Consider the now-retired chip mascot Frito Bandito. And Speedy Gonzales, the cheese snatcher. But Mexicans invert this trope.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou live in California,\u201d my paternal grandfather would remind me when we\u2019d visit Mexico at Christmas. \u201cYou live there because of a robbery! The United States stole that land! Americans are thieves.\u201d<\/p>\n

My grandfather\u2019s indictment was supposed to make me, a gringa, ashamed. Instead, it made me secretly relish America. My family lived on stolen land and stolen fruit always tastes better. Its ill-gotten nature emboldens its umami, glazes it with immoral MSG.<\/p>\n

When I went on my first stealing spree, I became a Mexican bandit, and a practitioner of Manifest Destiny.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

While other girls shoplifted at the mall, I strolled into our small town\u2019s public library. A steak knife rode in my coat pocket. I hunted among the stacks for Tropic of Cancer<\/em> and Tropic of Capricorn<\/em>. After finding them, I enjoyed the faint sound they made as I pulled them free. They dropped into my backpack. I headed to the restroom and waited on a toilet seat defaced by graffiti. Once I was alone, I set Henry Miller\u2019s novels on my lap. I reached for my knife. I slid it out and dragged the blade along each book\u2019s spine, freeing the antitheft devices embedded inside. I pretended to be gutting rainbow trout. I wondered if the books had feelings and, if so, did they feel violated by my actions? I shrugged off the thought and slid the knife back into my coat. I collected the chunks I\u2019d cut away and shoved them into the small metal coffin bolted to the stall, where they mixed with the bloody menstrual pads.<\/p>\n

In my bedroom, I read the Miller books. It felt good to read them because they were stolen, but I was also disappointed. I\u2019d been expecting porn, something worthy of Penthouse<\/em> or Playboy<\/em>, not poetry.<\/p>\n

By the time I turned sixteen, my bedroom bookshelf overflowed with spineless books. One stolen trophy was so special that I kept it under my bed. Despite this book\u2019s importance, I cannot recall its title. I can only recall its images. It was a collection of photographs, artworks, and interviews with lesbians. I had never seen a lesbian in my hometown, the closest things we had were nuns, and the lesbians featured in this book sported crew cuts and leather harnesses through which their big, gay breasts spilled. I wanted to touch these women but I also wanted to be them, to be as bold as they were. Hiding this book under my bed felt like hiding my future under my mattress.<\/p>\n

My favorite photograph in the book was of a lesbian wedding ceremony. The photograph presaged my wedding, but not my divorce.<\/p>\n

I was arrogant about my crimes. I didn\u2019t think anyone in my town was as capable of appreciating the books I stole as I was. In fact, I thought I was doing everyone a favor by adopting the books and taking them into a home where they would finally get the love their strangeness deserved.<\/p>\n

I must have inherited my modus operandi from my mother. After separating from my ex-wife, I brought home the first male lover I\u2019ve ever introduced to my mother and father. My mother sat this lover at the dining-room table, exclaiming, \u201cWait here!\u201d She got to work playing an old-lady game of show-and-tell, parading her favorite possessions in front of him. Towels from Cairo. Signs written in Polish. A candle snuffer from Lisbon. As my mother explained how she\u2019d acquired these items, she did not shy away from using criminal nomenclature.<\/p>\n

My lover interrupted her, saying, \u201cWait. You stole<\/em> these things?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d my mother answered in her heavy Guadalajara accent. \u201cBut it\u2019s okay!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt is?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause I like them!\u201d<\/p>\n

I am a thief because I am an American, a Mexican, my mother\u2019s daughter, and my grandmother\u2019s granddaughter. My grandmother remained incorrigible until we put her underground.<\/p>\n

At her wake, everyone approached her casket to say goodbye. Afterward, my ex-wife, my schizophrenic uncle, and I drove to an Italian restaurant where we intended to eat spaghetti and reminisce. My uncle patted his shirt pocket.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere are my sunglasses?\u201d he muttered.<\/p>\n

I glanced at my ex-wife. She glanced at me. We were both thinking the same thing. We had watched my uncle bend over his mother\u2019s coffin to kiss her goodbye. Figuring that heaven, or hell, might be too bright, my grandmother must have summoned the last pair of shades she\u2019d encounter before burial. The glasses remain with her, the undertaker confirmed that he\u2019d noticed them. I hope the darkness they provide feels extra sweet forever.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Myriam Gurba is the author of <\/em>Mean, a nonfiction novel and memoir. She lives in California and loves cash, succulents, and the elderly.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Good artists imitate; great artists steal. In our new series, Stolen, writers share stories of theft. My ex-wife stared as she watched my maternal grandmother slide a chicken into her purse. When she noticed she was being watched, my grandmother locked eyes with my ex-wife. In her thick Guadalajara accent, my grandmother bellowed, \u201cFor the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1300,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[30695],"tags":[2655,8256,31540],"class_list":["post-117745","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-stolen","tag-henry-miller","tag-tropic-of-cancer","tag-tropic-of-capricorn"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe Mexican American Bandit<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"On stealing chickens, lesbian books, candle snuffers, signs, towels, and sunglasses.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/11\/06\/mexican-american-bandit\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"The Mexican American Bandit by Myriam Gurba\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"November 6, 2017 \u2013 Good artists imitate; great artists steal. 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