Yesterday I was in the post office and heard two men talking. One of them had what sounded like a strong Cajun accent, so as he walked by I asked what part of Louisiana he was from. He said "Not Louisiana. Mexico!"
He had married a local red haired girl 30 years ago and learned all the English he knew right here in South Mississippi.
Well I'll be darn. So that's what red neck English sounds like filtered through a Mexican accent.

So I tell him my former mother-in-law was from Monterrey Mexico. He tells me in Spanish where he came from in Mexico--one of those unpronounceable states in interior Mexico. He was not a mestizo, a mix of Spaniard and native Indian blood. He was pure Mexican Indian.

His brown face had deep wrinkles. He had given up his culture, his family; parents, brothers, sisters, and relatives to stay here. I suspect he rarely if ever got to go back to see them. I could smell alcohol on his breath. I felt a stab of sympathy. "You're a long way from home," I said. He looked at me, and he knew I knew what was in his heart. He hugged me as tightly as if I were his sister, and we parted.

susil