Granados: Don’t let the acts of a few ...

I walked into one of the laundry rooms at my apartment complex and was greeted by a dark -complexioned man who said, "Hola," followed by a string of Spanish words unintelligible to my ears. I responded with, "No hablo Espanol."

If you don't know already, that means, "I don't speak Spanish," and it wasn't strictly true—I studied Spanish for many years in high school and college—but it was close enough.

The man seemed surprised. He must have assumed that I would be able to speak Spanish; perhaps he even imagined me a brother from whatever country he claimed as home. All from a glance at me as I walked through the door.

When I moved into my apartment a couple years ago, a middle-aged woman who lived nearby would often stare at me when I stopped to check my mail. Uncomfortable, I would perform my task quickly and utter a hurried hello.

One day she stopped me. I looked very similar to her cousin, she said. Could we be related? "Where is he from?" I asked. "Pakistan," she said. I told her I did not think we were kin.

At a local convenience store, an olive-skinned woman shyly asked, "Are you Indian?" I shook my head.

"You're Greek, right?" asked one friend. "No, he's Italian," another chimed in. A third thought I was Jewish.

I am using some dramatic license because I can't remember all those conversations and situations with jour-nalistic precision, but you get the gist—I am everyman. At least that's what I tell people when I jokingly talk about my future presidential run. My campaign slogan will be, "I'm just like you."

For the record, if the U.S. Census Bureau knocks on my door, I will list myself as Caucasian, but the truth is that I'm the son of a Spanish immigrant.

My father, Juan Granados, came to the United States legally in 1969. He became a doctor while still in Spain, but emigrated when he discovered that connections, of which he had none, were necessary to satisfy ambitions. Anx-ious, he crossed the Atlantic, because he knew that in America, merit was the currency of the ambitious.

I am grateful for my heritage.

When I was young, my family spent every other Christmas in Spain. The holiday was heavy on food and short on presents. For those, children had to wait for Three Kings Day (Jan. 6). I was usually back in the states by then.

I'm also happy that my dad had an accent. It was heavier when I was a child, and if my dad were angry, he sometimes cursed in English. I would repeat one particular word amongst friends—begins with an "s" and ends with a "t"—but because I was copying a heavily accented version, I don't think any-body knew what I was saying. Sometimes miscommunication can be a good thing.

And I have always had a sense of how different things can be. Being periodically transplanted from my safe, subur-ban life and thrown into a strange, unintelligible world became usual growing up, though never comfortable.

In the U.S., I would not repeat the dislocating experiences of childhood until I was in my early 20s, living in Carr-boro, N.C. The Hispanic immigrant population was booming there, and again, from time to time, I would find my-self in strange, unintelligible situations. I was not disturbed. I just took it as part of life.

From there, I moved to Manassas, a place some new friends called "Little Mexico." They spoke of it with irritation. I did not see the fuss.

Then, as a reporter covering Manassas City Council meetings, I began to understand the problem. City residents would complain of the unkempt houses, loud music, cars on the grass, multiple, unrelated residents living in one house, etc.

Sometimes the anger residents felt leapt away from the topic—essentially disorderly conduct—and began to attack the language, culture and presence of those whose behavior disturbed. The word "illegal" spread like pandemic flu. I grew uncomfortable.

I like diversity. I like having different people, different languages and different cultures in one place. Manassas, Carrboro and the United States are richer for it. Unfortunately, illegal immigration and some bad behavior have spread a stain onto persons and cultures undeserving of derision.

And that's the obstacle we seem to be encountering in the illegal immigration debate—detaching the people from the problem. They are not one and the same; though they are a mix—one that needs to be separated.

We will learn to appreciate the sounds of the Spanish tongue. We can investigate the cultures and customs of our Latino brothers and sisters. We should partake of their food, festivities and friendship. And, when possible, we must send the illegal immigrants home. In those ways, we can be tolerant and tough.

I am everyman, and we are all part of the same human family. But we won't fit in the same house.

Alex Granados is the editorial page editor and reader representative for the News & Messenger.