“Who dresses you?”
“Silver.”
“What’s that? A store or a horse?”
“Neither. Silver Galindo. My San Antonio cousin.”
“What kind of name is Silver?”
“It’s English,” Flavio said, “for Silvestre.”
I said, “What you are, sweetheart, is a product of American imperialism,” and plucked at the alligator on his shirt.
“I don’t have to dress in a sarape and sombrero to be Mexican,” Flavio said. “I know who I am.”
I wanted to leap across the table, throw the Oaxacan black pottery pieces across the room, swing from the punched tin chandelier, fire a pistol at his Reeboks, and force him to dance. I wanted to be Mexican at that moment, but it was true. I was not Mexican. Instead of the volley of insults I intended, all I managed to sling was a single clay pebble that dissolved on impact—perro. “dog.” It wasn’t even the word I’d meant to hurl.