That Time I “Read a Book” with Miss America

I wouldn’t know if a girl was interested in me if she said out loud, “I’m interested in you”…

The polished metal paperweight I made in college glistens in the pale light emanating from the glass cabinet. As proud as I was of my engineered creation stamped with our family name and crest, it sticks out among the beautiful souvenirs we had acquired during our vacations abroad.

Each shelf in the cabinet represents a past trip my family took to México; there are mini marble pyramids from Chichen Itza, clay ornaments of beaches from Cancún, a wooden váse from Puerto Vallarta, and a granite Aztec calendar we bought from a vendor in Ixtapa. In front of these beautiful works of art sits my cold metallic object looking like a blemish on this tribute to Mexican culture.

I twist my wrist to my watch face: 7:21 pm.

“Gérman, remind me again. Why are watching the Miss America Pageant?”

Weekday nights usually consist of our family channel surfing until Mom finds a sitcom she likes or Dad makes the executive decision to watch SportsCenter. This night would be a break from our regularly scheduled programming.

I must not have acknowledged her question quickly enough because the next thing I hear is, “Gérman Arturo Guzmán, answer me. Why is it important we watch this tonight?”

When I meet people and then tell them my name is “Germán” being sure to use correct pronunciation, the response I often hear is, “Really? I would’ve never thought you were Lah-tea-no”. I don’t “look” it, as I’ve been told countless times. People have mistaken my ethnicity for Middle Eastern, Western European, Hapa, or just plainly “white”. I’ve grown accustomed to being misidentified.

My tattoo-less body is more tan than brown, making me stand out like a dull light bulb when I am around my dark-skinned relatives. Unlike most of the men in my family, I have no mustache, a smooth throat, and whisps of chest hair most guys are proud of when they’re twelve. While other members of the Guzmán family were confident in themselves and shook hands with other men a lo macho, my odd-looking profile made me feel apprehensive — needing to prove my worth to the world.

This time I hear my Father’s voice breaking up my internal thoughts. It booms calmly, “Míjo, Miss America started. Can you please sit down with your mother and I and explain to us why we’re watching?”

I slump into a squishy section of the couch next to my parents and recount a memory from my college days that will stay with me forever…

It was September 2005, the first day of Worthington College’s annual Latino Student Retreat welcoming the freshmen with a trip to Angeles National Forest. I had just started school and even though I had already made new friends, I was nervous and anxious about the weekend. I left my dorm room, bag in hand, and walked three steps before knocking on my friend Alonzo’s door.

Alonzo (or Alo as I called him) was the biggest Mexican I had ever seen. Well over six and a half feet tall and large in stature with small beady eyes, I was surprised this guy wasn’t ever recruited to play football considering he was bigger than half the squad. Alo opened the door wearing a red shirt with a bearded, beret-wearing man on the front and the letters “CHE” labeled in black. “Who’s Chee?” I inquired. Alo stared at me blankly, eyes opened large, as if I had just asked what shape the earth was. He responded dryly, “Are you serious?”

Apparently this “Chee person” is someone I should have known, but I couldn’t lie my way out of this. I was secretly hoping a supermodel would walk by or we’d have a 5.0 earthquake, anything to break this awkward silence. I stared at him blankly, not knowing what to say.

Alo erupted in a fit of laughter. “I’m just fucking with you, guey. Don’t worry about it. C’mon, let’s get to the buses and see what kinda shit they have for us.”

Guey. I heard that term before used in my high school but it never described me then.

The word guey comes from the Spanish word buey, which means “bull.” My friend wasn’t mistaking me for a big-horned animal, but was using the term as an equivalent to “dude” in English. For someone who has had many issues with identity, being called guey was quite an honor.

After we placed our bags in the luggage compartment, we boarded a black charter bus filled with eager students, many of them nervously staring out the window. We found two vacant seats near the back of the bus. Sitting down, I was impressed how soft the leather seats were. “Dude, the last time I was on a bus this nice, I was headed to Sacramento for another Latino event.” I stated proudly.

“Hold up, which event?” Alo buzzed.

“Yeah, it was called the Chicano/Latino Youth Program, CLYP. I was part of this group of Latino high school students from all over the state and we went up to Sacramento to learn about Latino history in California. It was the first time I heard about the high school walkouts in L.A., and Sal Castro and the Brown Berets…”

“When did you go?” Alo grilled. I felt like a suspect in an interrogation room. I didn’t know why Alo was so curious.

“Um, I was a student participant my sophomore year in high school, and then volunteered my junior year as a peer counselor. It felt good being part of that.”

“Fuck fool, I went the year you were a peer counselor!” Alo said softly, eyes crinkling and smirking.

“Wait, were you the big kid with the pony-tail?”

“For damn sure!” Alo responded enthusiastically.

I was about to continue my thought when Alo abruptly questioned, “Did you ever make a move with Jackie, that really hot chick?

“Uh…no, I didn’t. I didn’t think she was into me.” I answered, my mind suddenly preoccupied by a small tear in the blue leather seat in front of me. I started picking at it, hoping someone else would talk to Alo and change the subject.

“What the hell is wrong with you, guey? You danced with her all night at the banquet. She’s going to Stanford, and she loved dancing with you all night, and she has a great ass! Why the fuck didn’t you make a move!”

Alo was correct about her assets and credentials, but the particular area of courting women was not a strong suite of mine in high school. I took a silent pledge that I would “get better” at this in college, my Dad’s favorite phrase to me when I was growing up. It didn’t matter if he was talking about my grades or my feeble attempt to be good at basketball, his catch phrase was “get better”. Being confident about asking girls out wasn’t something you magically “get better” at, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to try.

Similar to a high school junior playing on the sophomore football team, I felt a spring of confidence emerge from my chest.

“You know what, Alo? You’re right! The next time a hot girl’s in to me, I’ll know the signs!”

When the bus parked at the campground, many of the students piled out frantically; I was immersed in a book. After Alo and I retrieved our luggage, I started heading for the men’s cabin when Alo stopped in his footsteps. I looked up and saw his focus was directed to a group of six girls huddled together at the end of the campsite.

“Germán, check out this girl I met at the dining hall!” Alo whispered, “She’s walking toward us.” My eyes moved from Alo’s trancelike gaze to two girls headed our way.

One of the girls was light-skinned with curly hair. She was wearing a traditional Mexican white blouse with a floral pattern, and light blue jeans. The other girl was slightly taller and was walking in perfect unison with her friend, but then darted out of sight.

“Holá, que onda?” Alo enthusiastically exclaimed when the girl approached us. She beamed, showing a set of perfectly white teeth. I don’t know what Alo was thinking, but I wanted to learn who this girl’s dentist was because whoever it was did a bang-up job.

The girl’s name was Zuleika (zoo-lei-CAh), and she was from central California, a proud Chicana. She loved Mexican music and culture, was raised in a Spanish speaking household, and came to Worthington to study language and government. After our initial greeting, her and Alo began speaking about Mexican rock bands Maná and Cafe Tacuba. I wasn’t too familiar with this music, and lost all sense of the conversation when it turned over completely to Spanish. Both Alo and Zuleika crossed the magical bridge of bilingualism, leaving me alone on the other side.

It wasn’t unique in my family, but the experience of being Mexican-American and not being fluent in Spanish has always been discomforting. One painful encounter I remember took place in high school during Spanish 101. I told a native speaker in our class that I was Mexican but didn’t grow up speaking the language. He walked away saying, “Malo pocho.” shaking his head in disgust. That experience had stuck with me, like a tattoo of shame. I was hoping that other Spanish-speaking people I came across in college would not find out about my in-the-closet monolingualism.

It was time for me to leave. “I’ll catch up with you later, Alo. Zuleika, fue un placer,” I said as confidently as possible.

“Igualmente Gérman, ciao.” Zuleika responded.

I had just started toward the cabin when I turned back to Alo and Zuleika still deep in conversation.

“Real quick Zuleika, who was that girl you were walking with before you came over here?”

“Oh, that was my roommate Xotchil (pronounced Soo-chee). I’ll bring her by later and you can meet her.” Zuleika said. Seriously, this girl had perfect teeth.

Alo passed me a subtle glance, conveying one thought: Don’t blow it, guey.

I bypassed the guy’s cabin and took a walk in the woods. I’ve lived in Southern California all my life, and this was the first time I’d ever seen Angeles National Forest with my own eyes instead of through a dusty car window. Brushfire-prone twigs snapped underneath my weight as I slowly crunched my way through the pale woods.

Worthington College was going to be a new beginning for me. I grew up a Mexican-American with proud, militant parents that had one goal for both my sister and I since we were young: attend the best college possible and pursue your passion (unless your passion was creative writing or history, not “real majors” according to my Dad).

My parents believed college should not be determined by affordability nor proximity; it was to be spent learning social skills, growing personally and professionally, and choosing a career path. I felt my college experience was similar to visiting the optometrist, trying on different lenses until I found the ones most in focus for my life. College was not going to be like high school, when I felt as if I spent every waking moment either in school or at a school event.

I was now a student at the prestigious Worthington college; high school was in my rearview mirror. My canvas was brand new again, and my paintbrush hadn’t even been dabbed. It was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. I had no identity except the color of my skin and the preparation of eighteen years.

I wanted to be comfortable in that skin, and this was my opportunity to fit in with my “people”. I started feeling comfortable with myself at the CLYP, and didn’t want that to go away. During my walk, I made a quiet oath that I would work on no longer being afraid of hispano hablantes and own who I was. I had a long way to go.

The cabin came into sight when I saw Alo storming toward me. “Germán! You gotta meet this girl!”

“I already met Zuleika.”

“No, fool! You need to meet her roommate Xotchil!”

Alo and I were walking to dinner, when he directed, “Look, Zuleika and Xotchil are coming over to our cabin later tonight to play cards. I met Xotchil after you left and I think you’ll like her, she’s pretty fuckin’ cute.” I always admired how Alo was able to insert the word fuck into any possible sentence; it took some real skill.

After dinner, we retreated to the cabin and set up a table for cards. A dark-skinned freshman held up a small stereo to his ears bobbing his head, blasting what sounded like early 90s hip-hop. We all laughed at the sight, looking forward to meeting some of the girls many of us were subtly looking at over the course of the day.

The cabin started filling up around 9:30pm. Eager first-years were talking, listening to music, and enjoying the moonlight through the windows. Alo and I were enjoying the evening festivities, but we were both wondering when the girls were going to show up.

10:30pm. The cabin was now overflowing with students. The music was loud, the card game was boisterous, and some people found a way to sneak some food out of the dining area even though they told us not to. Alo and I quickly gazed at the clock and then at each other, eyebrows raised. One of the guys we met was trying feebly to get our attention, but Alo kept staring at the front door at the far end of the cabin. About five minutes later, a big smile came across my friend’s face. My attention shifted to the doorway, and I saw Zuleika in the doorway with a slightly taller girl next to her, although she was initially blocked from my view. The two girls parted ways, and I realized the taller girl was the same person walking with Zuleika earlier that morning. Alo gave me a slight nudge in the taller’s girl direction. He didn’t need to say anything, I already knew. That was Xotchil.

I moved closer to her trying to get a better look. However even in my new position, I still could not see her. She may have been really attractive, but at this point I felt like the universe didn’t want me to meet this girl and was doing a great job to make sure it stayed that way. I continued to wrestle with fate, determined to see Xotchil. After what seemed like hours of looking over and around, the moment came when the sea of students parted and I finally caught a glimpse.

She was cute, Alo was right about that. Her dark brown hair was up in a tight bun, and she was wearing sweatpants and an oversized Atlanta Falcons sweatshirt. Although she was making no attempt at drawing attention, many of the guys stared at her as she walked across the room. She turned toward me, and our eyes locked.

Wow.

Her eyes were filled with unquenchable passion, a fire that immediately drew me like magnetism. This girl was stunning, but she was much more than that. My right brain secretly hoped this private moment between us would continue, but my left brain was devising a plan to meet Xotchil in person instead of swooning from afar. This was my shot to “get better” at asking girls out, and I wasn’t going to sit on the sidelines. I went up to her and managed to squeak out a pre-pubescent “Hi”.

Not a great start Germán.

Xotchil hushed a small laugh. “Hi! You’re Germán, verdad?”

She knows your name! And she pronounced it perfectly! Quick, respond fool!

“Yes,” I replied. “and you’re Xotchil, Zuleika’s roommate?”

She smiled and looked like she was about to answer when Alo came bursting through a pile of first years. “Hola, que pex Xotchil?” Alo roared with a little too much enthusiasm. Xotchil smiled sheepishly, and then responded, “Nada, guey. Que rollo con el pollo?”

Damn. Another person who can cross the magical bridge of bilingualism and leave me on the other side alone. Would she be like the native speaker in Spanish 101, calling me “malo pocho” and shrinking my dignity to the size of a cricket?

Alo and Xotchil continued the conversation predominantly in Spanish, and I was trying to both translate in my head and answer the best I could using my limited SSL (Spanish as a Second Language) skills. I escaped the conversation with most of my dignity intact, although the two of them could have been planning my murder and I would not have comprehended.

This girl with tantalizing eyes wouldn’t be in to someone like me, and I wanted out of this three-way conversation that mostly involved two people. Still, I prided myself on being polite and wished her a good night.

“Pues, me voy. Xotchil, fue un placer y buenas noches” I said as I was left to circulate with other students. I noticed Xotchil finding my eyes throughout the rest of the evening.

The last day of the retreat was filled with trust exercises, sports, open forums, and crafts. Even though I had a great time hanging out with Alo and other guys from the cabin, I thought of Xotchil most of the day. My silent prayer was a second chance to meet her in an arena where I felt more comfortable. He must’ve heard me.

That night featured a big dance party before heading back to Worthington. The guys in the cabin were adamant about not only their wardrobe and how they smelled, but also their hair. I didn’t put a huge emphasis on appearance, albeit my Mother always told me, “There is no shame in being poor, only dressing poorly.” I didn’t bring the best clothes, but I did manage to clean up okay, with a semi-ironed button down and black slacks.

The dance party was a memorable ending to the weekend. After downing two bright red cups of fruit punch to cool down being on the dance floor, I spotted Alo with Zuleika. He made eye contact with me and then mouthed “Go after Xotchil!” I didn’t think it would come to anything, but I definitely had a crush on her. I gathered some courage by saying a quick prayer, and headed into the crowd of bodies looking for Xotchil.

I spotted her dancing with some other girls and one guy. I mentioned before this young woman was graceful wearing a sweatshirt and sweatpants, but tonight she looked quite elegant. Her dark brown hair was not in a tight bun this time, but fell straight down below her shoulders in a wave-like pattern. She was wearing turquoise earrings, a fitted brown shirt, and dark-washed jeans. As I was slowly trying to approach her without looking creepy or desperate, she caught my subtle movement. From her raised eyebrows and large eyes, it appeared she was slightly taken aback seeing me pop out of nowhere. After the initial surprise, her face then relaxed into a small grin.

Before I could request a dance, merengue music started to blast from the small speakers. I had become quite skilled at pretending to know how to dance in high school, and perhaps I could feign this skill in college. A loud shout echoed through the wooden house as the students happily screamed in approval of the song. A soft hand grasped mine, and it didn’t take me more than a split second to realize it was Xotchil’s. I turned towards her, and witnessed a bashful smile spread across her face as she realized I knew it was her. I took her other hand with a single thought occupying my mind. If I could hold my own on the dance floor, I could prove to her that I am not a complete waste of space.

I knew in that instant that the next few minutes of rhythmic body movements would be the best part of this entire trip, and could potentially lead to something special. As Elvis Crespo’s “Suavemente” permeated through the hall, my mind went blank and I let my feet and hands do the talking. I delicately hooked my hands into hers, our fingers embracing with the softest touch. We spun and twirled. I brought her in close to me, and with the confidence of a professional dancer, I whirled her back out with a double twist. The moment was ours, and I was going to enjoy this time as much as possible.

After the song ended, we both left the dance floor to talk outside. This was my chance to learn more about the mystery girl. She was originally from Georgia (hence the Falcons getup), majoring in international relations, and loved to dance and listen to Mariachi music. Her parents were from the Mexican state of Jalisco and she was “damn proud” of being a Chicana. My mother would have loved it if I brought this girl home for dinner.

The night ended with another card game in our cabin. I was reading a book while Alo, Xotchil, and Zuleika were in a fierce competition of Crazy Eights.

The game ended with a loud “No!” uttered by Xotchil. Unafraid of showing her displeasure, I heard her speaking to no one in particular how she could have won if she only had a King of Hearts.

I quietly went back to my book when I heard “Pues, me voy a dormir. Oye Germán, damé mi chaqueta por favor.” I immediately obliged. I would have given this girl my left ear if she wanted it. We said goodbye to Alo and Zuleika, and I escorted her back to her cabin, her jacket in one of my hands, my book in the other.

We were deep in conversation about classes when Xotchil changed the subject.

“Hey, I’ve meaning to ask, do you speak Spanish?”

My mind went into a panic: She wants to know if you’re worthy. Whatever chance you thought you had with this girl is going to end abruptly. Be honest with her and maybe you can still be friends.

I apologetically responded out loud, “Not really, Xotchil. My parents didn’t us up speaking Spanish. But I will say we grew up with a lot of Mexican culture.”

“No worries. I was just curious because you kinda seemed on edge when Alo, Zuleika, and I spoke Spanish. No need to “keep it real” (she said making air quotes). Just keep it you.”

It took a little bit of time for my mind to find the right words to respond. I love you.

My God, am I happy I didn’t say that out loud! If Xotchil was listening in on my inner thoughts, she may have chosen to scamper into the forest than be walked home by a crazy person! No one had ever stated my “situation” like that before, and it was refreshing to hear it from a proud Chicana. I was so happy to be with her, and yet terrified that I was going to screw it up. I shyly said thank you as we approached her cabin.

When we entered the house, a voice in my head turned on. There is no way in hell this girl is into you. Have you seen her? Have you looked in a mirror lately? She is being polite because she was brought up that way, but you have a 0% shot with her. Be the nice guy that you are, say goodnight and leave.

We both the inspected the area to see if anyone else was present: completely deserted, as the other students were still either at the dance hall or in the guy’s cabin. She focused on me and I at her. Wow, those eyes. “Well, here we are. What would you like to do?” she added to the moment.

I surveyed the cabin, eyes fixated momentarily on the roof and then out the window. My inner voice chimed in: Don’t try anything, you’ll just make a fool out of yourself. I instinctually gave back her jacket, and felt the book Prisons We Choose to Live Inside within my left hand.

“Well, I guess we can… read.”

“Excuse me?”

“Read. I have a lot of reading to do, and I didn’t get a chance to get as much work done as I was hoping to this weekend.”

Her face changed from one of patient exhilaration to cute perplexity to focused execution, all in the span of 0.4 microseconds.

“You know what. You’re right. I haven’t gotten a lot done either. Let me grab a book. Do you mind if we read on my bed?”

“No, not a problem. I’ll meet you up there.”

The next thirty minutes were spent relatively quietly. This is the uncomfortable or unfortunate silence in movies when crickets play the amusing repetitive rhythm. In my case, there were no crickets playing, probably because they were too busy laughing witnessing the wreck occurring in front of them.

I remember vividly how adamantly she read her book in complete stillness. I would gaze up at her to see if our eyes would meet again, but they never did. At the conclusion of our reading session, I gave her a huge bear hug, not knowing then that this passing wrinkle of time could have been a universal sign that she wanted me to make a move. I hurriedly wished her good night in Spanish, and left.

Now you can imagine the kind of ridicule I received the following morning from Alo and my other guy friends (“Did your balls swell up?” “Is something wrong with you?!” “She was begging for you to kiss her, you moron!”). It wasn’t pretty.

Xotchil and I kept in touch intermittently through college and post-graduation thanks to Facebook, but we never got as close as we did that night. Nine years later, she announced through social media that she would be participating in the Miss America Pageant as Miss Georgia.

Which brings me back to the beginning of the story.

The announcer on the TV mentions they will announce the runner-up and Miss America right after the commercial break. It was weird thinking that this girl I met all those years ago was one step away from receiving a crown in front of millions of viewers. As a scholarship program, Miss America is a symbol of empowerment for American women everywhere, and there was not a shadow of a doubt that Xotchil could be that voice.

“You really screwed that one up,” my Mom tells me. “My guess is that girl was not as interested in the book she was reading as much as the guy reading next to her.”

I shoot my Mom a passing glare, and she bursts out laughing.

After they place the Miss America crown on Xotchil’s head, tears in her eyes, my phone starts to vibrate.

13 messages. It was my friends from Worthington, all texting the same thing: “You choked, guey!”

Truth is I did choke, but I didn’t die. The memory of “reading a book with Miss America” is something I will carry with me for the rest of my life. I think we learn more from our chokes than our triumphs. All these little “nothings” are part of the path to finding that big “something” (or someone) we’re all searching for. For me, it was not only about being comfortable in my own skin, but taking pride in who I was as a person. Now that I’m on the verge of my 30s, I think I’m closer than ever to being the “something” I was destined to be. In my opinion, if that guy was in a similar position with a future Miss America, he would know exactly what to do.