Dear Mexican, Looking back recently on my distant youth in northwest Ohio, I came to the realization that the sweetest, most beautiful girl this gabacho ever went out with (indeed, in my entire senior class) was the pureblooded daughter of Mexican immigrants. Am I under the sway of 1) simple nostalgia; 2) racist exoticism; 3) premature senility; 4) a deep sense of loss for what might have been? Please help, before I start reading Proust! — Couldn’t Help Wondering Dear Gabacho, None of the