My Mexican Fang

Me: Old (mostly), white (mostly), raised in an upper-middle-class neighborhood (me po’ nuff sho’ nuff now, though).

So what the HELL was I thinking when I hooked up with a “BROWN PRIDE”-tatted Mexican FIFTEEN YEARS younger than I am?

(Yeah, I know what you’re thinkin’ I was thinkin’…with.)

Oh, and not just hooked up…I love the dude! Jeez, Louise!

Fang-boy is loud, ignorant, bossy, ignorant, sexist, ignorant, racist, ignorant, sexist (did I say sexist and ignorant yet?)…

Oh, and I mean SEXIST!! Really, really, OFFENSIVELY sexist! The man is a f#cking NEANDERTHAL!! (We’re workin’ on that.)

Not Fang. I think Fang’s tat is racist, BTW…

We have NADA in common. I don’t even speak Spanish (except como un bebe).

And, like many L.A. Mexicans, Fang only THINKS he speaks English–he’s lived here practically his whole life–but his brand of English has about 100 words in it.

I’m constantly having to define for him everyday words and expressions, like explaining that I was using sarcasm–although he uses irony and sarcasm and the like in Spanish to me; e.g. In mock anger: “Que vamos a hacer contigo!”/”What are we going to do with you!”–right before he shows me, in a way that makes us both very happy…

Yeah. Like This.

When I say Fang is ignorant, I mean of more than just English vocabulary.

He paid no attention in school because when he came here as a young boy, all the other students called him “Beaner” (all but one, who became his best friend), and the teachers were unkind to the little brown import, as well (all but one, but that’s for another post).

I also think Fang is dyslexic, which certainly didn’t help. So–next-to-no schooling, and, since school, the typical seven-day work week of the hard-working Mexican man. Not much time for learning much about anything, except his trade.

So, it’s not just language we don’t have in common. We can’t share films or television programs or books, or history, or science.

I love wordplay, love making puns and stupid language jokes, and Fang just can’t “get” what I get. Add the culture gap. And then there’s the huge age gap on top of it. And the gender gap on top of that, of course.

Good grief, even in the bedroom–or kitchen or wherever–we are still working out compromises! Although give credit where it’s due: Fang’s sexist bossiness has not always been entirely unwelcome (something this feminist never would have suspected about herself!).

We’ve never even shared a meal. I’m an everything-organic rice-only almost-vegetarian. Watching Fang gnaw away on chewy, gristly strips of beef is enough to make me barf.

I sip a half glass of wine occasionally. Fang? Tecate by the truckload. And just TRY to get him to use a coaster!

Let’s face it. We are just not meant to be together.

And yet…

Some of you may be old enough to remember the little Scottie dog magnets, one white and one black, that you set on top of a table and slowly pushed toward each other until, suddenly, they RUSHED together with a !!CLICK!!

That’s Fang. That’s me.

I’ve told him I wish I could quit him. He’s told me the same. But–at least for now–we need each other.

It’s over a year we’ve been dating, and I still thrill when I hear his ringtone. And his voice is sexy as hell.

The man is a pig, really. But he’s my pig. And YOU say one thing against him, I smash your face in.

And Don’t Think I Can’t Do It!


Blacks and Hispanics (not only Latinos) are included among my prior dates and boyfriends. Fang, however, is my first Mexican(-American) boyfriend.

Begrudging Second Addendum:

Ignorant he may be, but what does that make me? Fang has the very irritating habit of being right over half the damn time…(but since he’ll never read this, he’ll never know I admitted it!)

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