In Chaska: Two cultures, two worlds

The signal hummed promptly at 11:55 a.m., and the noise in the carpeted halls of Chaska High School rose to a low roar.

Lunchtime. A throng of students thundered toward the cafeteria, which smelled of sour milk and teen sweat.

Sophomore Denise Soriano hurried in, a cell phone stuck to her ear, and plunked down at the usual table. The dialogue came in quick spurts of animated Spanglish. Today, the talk was of graffiti reportedly scrawled on the wall of a boys bathroom.

Beaner. Spic. Wetback.

"People think we're gangsters, but it's not like that," said Denise, who is 15 and Mexican-American.

Her friend shook his head. "I didn't see the graffiti, but why would anyone do that?" said Jose Acevedo. "It makes me feel, not angry, but sad -- about the way humans treat other humans."

The conversation at Denise's table drifted to the usual topics. This girl. That guy. Homework. The weekend. They laughed and nibbled French fries, just like the tables of mostly white students around them.

But different.

To listen to these high school students is to hear the new voices of the suburbs. Across the metro, as elsewhere in the country, immigrants are moving from the core cities and inner-ring suburbs out into far-flung suburbs and exurbs. And the migration is changing the rhythm of suburban life.

They're drawn by the same desires as other suburbanites -- cheaper homes, newer schools, a quieter pace of life. From Chaska to Woodbury to Blaine, the faces in classrooms, workplaces and churches are growing more diverse.

In 1970, federal census-takers failed to find a single example of what they then called "Spanish-American persons" in the farming community of Chaska, the seat of Carver County. At the time, just 10 people in the town of more than 4,000 were part of a minority group.

Now Chaska is part of a phenomenon demographers call "rural-Metro Hispanics" -- immigrants who discover cheaper housing on the rural fringes of rich, fast-growing metro areas.

By 1980 the census found 35 Latinos in Chaska, a number that doubled by 1990. The trickle turned into a wave in the 1990s as the number of Latinos rose to 1,000 by the year 2000.

Chaska now has its own Hispanic bakery, grocery store, international money-wiring operations, and Spanish-language radio station. And it remains one of the richest (and whitest) suburbs in the metro area.

While the town has a charming square at its core, the real crossroads of the community occurs in the schools. Even as many of the first-generation immigrants keep to themselves, school is where their children are assimilating into the community, trying to balance two cultures, two worlds.

"The girls, in particular, are caught up in a world where they don't belong anywhere," said Maria Ochoa, a Spanish teacher at Chaska High School. "At home, they have to be very Latino, very traditional. They have to follow Mom's and Dad's rules, which are very strict. But then when they come to school, they have to be very Americanized because they need to feel that they fit in."

From the 'Pickle Pits' to Cologne

For nearly a decade, the Soriano family lived in a trailer at Riverview Terrace. The mobile home park is known locally as the Pickle Pits because it's near the Gedney pickle factory, which has employed many Latinos over the years.

It wasn't until the fifth grade that Denise noticed she was different from most of the other kids. Suddenly, Latino students hung out only with other Latinos.

As the children became aware of their differences, they started swearing and talking trash to each other. Someone called Denise a "Spic" and shouted at her to return to her "Mexican posse." Denise didn't understand what was happening, or why. But now, five years later, she shrugs it off.

As she entered high school, Denise discovered she was pregnant. She knew some girls who had opted to have abortions, but Denise says she felt a responsibility toward her unborn child.

In May 2006, she gave birth to a baby girl with a thatch of dark curls and named her Naomi. Having a toddler in tow further separates Denise from her peers. "It's hard being a teenage mother, going to school, and always worrying if your daughter is sick," she says.

Denise entered Chaska High School last September, determined to graduate and go on to college and medical school. She says she wants to be an obstetrician.

About a year and a half ago, the Soriano family moved to a housing development in Cologne, roughly 10 miles west of Chaska.

Their new house is a study in suburbia. It has a great room with thick carpeting, a gas grill and a satellite dish. Denise's bedroom is swathed in pink. Making her bed is a lengthy chore, thanks to a voluminous collection of teddy bears that she arranges atop two fluffy pillow shams.

Outside her bedroom window, Denise can see the fields that ring the town, now pocked with new homes and ever-widening highways.

At first, she hadn't wanted to come here. After the close community of the Pickle Pits, Cologne seemed isolated. "I think we're the only Hispanic people in the city of Cologne," she said. "It's, like, really weird." The only other person of color she's noticed is a Filipino woman who lives down the street.

Eventually she adjusted. Life there is not bad at all. But if she wants to mingle, she heads down the highway back to Chaska, and to her Latino friends.

Learning about their heritage

There is one place where Denise feels completely at ease outside of her own home -- a Spanish Heritage class that was created at the high school as an anchor for Hispanic girls grappling with identity.

The first few weeks of the class were difficult. Some of the girls didn't understand why they were in the class. Others felt it was a waste of time: I already speak Spanish, they said. A few were suspicious of Ochoa, the teacher: Why does she have short hair? Real Latino woman have long hair.

The petite and energetic Ochoa is from Ecuador. She moved to Chaska three years ago after marrying a local man. She assured the girls that what they say in class remains in class. She began by asking them where they're from, a little about their culture, their religion, their native customs. Their answers illustrate the confusion of being second-generation Latino in a white world.

What is the traditional dish of your country?

Pasta, said one.

Ramen noodles, said another.

No, Ochoa replied. What do your grandparents eat?

"They felt like they knew a lot about their heritage, but I don't know how much they actually knew," Ochoa said.

Slowly, the girls came around.

In class, Denise discovered that many of her peers came from diverse places -- Guatemala, Honduras and Puerto Rico -- even though they are often broadly labeled as Hispanic or Latino.

"When we talk [in Spanish]," said her friend Paulina Figueroa, who is Puerto Rican, "they don't understand my accent. My food is different, it's very different. If I bring food from Puerto Rico, my friends say, 'What's that?' "

Fear is a great divider

Three years ago, Rick Stanton landed at Chaska High School as a student supervisor, coach and counselor. Stanton, who is black, noticed that students of color gravitated toward him. Where did you come from? they asked. So Stanton, already a member of the town's Human Rights Commission, started a Diversity Club.

The club has proven to be a big draw for students eager to discuss issues of race, and curious about one another. Stanton encourages dialogue: Try to understand what someone else is going through, and learn from it.

As he sees it, students aren't just divided by issues of race, but by money, as well: Who has it, and who doesn't.

"Students whose parents make 100K a year are going to hang out with students who make 100K a year," he says. "Students whose parents make 30K a year tend to hang out with those kids. Sometimes I hear, 'People don't hang out with me because I can't afford to shop where they shop.' "

Like many high schools, Chaska's students separate themselves and others into social groups with labels: The Popular group, the Goths, the Hicks, the Future Farmers of America. And Hispanics.

"I wouldn't say it's racist here," said Tremell Miller, a junior from Shakopee, who is black. "I would say people have their moments. There are times it's racist in the school, but I wouldn't say the whole school is racist."

Denise likes to mix with different groups. Her white friend, Sarah Doppler, said one of the biggest barriers dividing whites and Latinos is language.

That, and fear.

"A lot of [white] people are scared of them," Sarah said of her Latino friends. "They think what they see on TV, with gangs and everything, the girls are really mean. They say, 'Don't go near the girls.' But it's not anything like that."

Some of Denise's friends don't bother mixing much socially. "I don't have many white friends," said 15-year-old Paulina, who moved to Victoria four years ago from Puerto Rico. "I don't know, when I got here, they immediately asked what part of Mexico I was from. I said I'm not from Mexico, and they look at me weird."

Despite the stereotypes, Denise and her friends are fiercely proud of their heritage and determined to succeed in America. But they know it will be harder for them because, as Denise puts it, "people assume we just like to have babies, stay home, go on welfare and clean houses."

She's unfazed by the prospect of college, and the long road of perhaps 10 years of medical school and residency. "I know if I want something, I can do it," she said, her jaw set.

Sure, she wants to succeed, maybe live a middle-class American life. But she also wants to keep her Mexican culture close. She's used to balancing in both worlds. Her cell phone's ring tone pumps out reggaeton, but she also likes Chicano rap. She proudly cooks dishes in mole sauce, a recipe from her parents' native Puebla.

But when pressed, she says that she likes pizza too.

Staff writer David Peterson contributed to this report. Janet Moore • 612-673-7752