I'm Daniel Ladudavich and I'm from Slovakia

Mexico City
April 8, 2016

De donde viene? Where are you from?

It's not an uncommon question here in Mexico. I'm clearly not Mexican and if there are any doubts, my accent gives me away immediately.

In other years it's not been too much of an issue, but in this year of the rise of Facist Donald Trump and his anti-Mexican stance, it's downright dangerous.

Twice I've been verbally attacked when I say I'm American. The last time was the last time.

Now I'm Daniel Ladudavich and I live in Slovakia.

Quick. What do you know about Slovakia?

Precisely.

A month ago I was on the beach in Acapulco. The week before Semana Santa. I was alone. There was really no one on the beach except the guy who rented me the beach chair, and he was usually sleeping and not readily close by. Even the normal number of vendors had dwindled. It was the calm before the storm of the Holy Week/Easter madhouse.

Late afternoon. A guy is walking down the beach, stops, asks me in broken English where I'm from. Everyone just assumes I'm American. I tell him New York.

He smiles. “I used to live in Philly. I worked in a restaurant. I loved Philly. Philly cheese steaks.”

The he changes. Fury wrinkles his face. “My wife is still there. My kids. I was deported. I hate your country. I hate Trump.”

He begins screaming at me. He's a big guy—much bigger than the average Mexican—and he's scaring me. He gets closer to me. I don't say anything. Spit starts to spray from his mouth.

I get up. No one is around.

“I'm not my country,” I tell him. Makes no difference. He's angry and I'm his target. It's happened before.

Had I been with someone it wouldn't have been so bad, but he was frightening me.

I get up, pack my things, start to walk in the direction of the beach chair guy, who's not there. No one is around.

This diffuses the situation. He leaves. I wait until he's a safe distance away, then return to my spot. It's late in the afternoon. I wait 'til the sun begins to set and make my way back to the hotel.

I tell myself that's it. From now on I'm from some place else.

Slovakia. Bratislava. Yeah. That's an idea. And if pushed, I work with the embassy in Mexico City. No one knows jack about Slovakia.

Which brings me to yesterday.

I stop into a mom and pop store to buy something.

“De donde viene,” the owner asks me.

“Europe,” I tell him.

“Que parte?”

“Slovakia.”

He then tells me how much Mexicans hate Americans.

“Pemex. Isis. Drugs.”

He's right. The government's dropping the nationalization of its massive oil reserves and we all know who the market's going to. The monster that lives to the north.

He's right. George W. Bush—the good “Christian”--wages war with Iraq and look what happens. All hell breaks loose and Isis rises. Imagine what Ted Cruz, with his Messianic certainty, will do. Another good “Christian.” How the message of Jesus has been perverted!

He's right. Americans point their finger at the rise of the drug cartels in Mexico and blame Mexico without looking honestly at its own face. The drugs are heading to American markets. What is it about my country that requires so many people to drug themselves into oblivion? 

I tell him I understand, that being neighbors to a large super power is difficult. I tell him it's the same in Slovakia, that Germany eats up everything around it. I tell him we were part of the Soviet Union, and that I get it.

We've reached a solidarity, me, the Slovakian, and him the Mexican, against the mega-powers within our scope.

We shake hands. He needed to vent. Who knows what would have happened had I identified myself as an American.

So from now on I'm Daniel Ladudavich and I'm from Slovakia. And if push to come to shove, I'm from Bratislava and I work for the embassy.

But from now on, as long as I'm here, I will not be Dan Ladue, an American!

What a sad, sad commentary on the United States of America! How we have slid since 9/11!