I do a lot of questioning. Growing up, my parents encouraged me to be vocal and to not shy away from curiosity. My mother would always remind me, “curious people are smart” and my father would add on, “asking questions does not make you vulnerable ― it makes you courageous.” They encouraged my headstrong, and sometimes stubborn, behavior. They never wanted me to shy away from speaking so loudly or bravely, hence why I began writing.
Over the years, a lot of my questions have been answered. I know where babies come from and why the earth revolves around the sun. I know where the ducks fly when the winter comes and why Sundays are the best days to eat barbacoa tacos. I know why boys pick on girls and why heartbreak is not the worst thing in the world. In my 18 years of questioning, I have learned things quickly and some things slowly.
Yet, there is something that took me a l-o-n-g time to learn because I had to question it so much:
My identity.
My whole life I claimed to be Chicana. My paternal grandfather was a migrant worker in Texas, and to this day he never eats grapes. My father and mother were both activists in college for Mexican-American students. My maternal grandfather worked in the restaurant business his whole life to feed a family of 7, and not every customer was keen to the idea of tipping a Mexican. Before I reached the age of 12, I was proud to be Mexican-American because my family struggled, but survived.
Then I went to middle school. A middle school with a 98% Hispanic population. A school where almost every brown kid spoke Spanish.
“You’re Mexican, but you can’t speak Spanish? Pinche gringa.”
“Does anyone in your family speak Spanish?”
“You should learn Spanish ― it is your native tongue.”
“If you call yourself American, then you can’t really be Mexican.”
I remember going home and crying after a long day of remarks from my peers. I remember being placed in Spanish 1 and being laughed at by my closest friends. I remember being angry at my parents for not teaching my brother or I the language. I remember telling my grandparents to talk to me in Spanish, but hating myself for not having a tongue that could flip-flop.
Twelve-year-old Bianca was only 4 feet, and could only handle so much criticism. She did not understand why so many of her peers judged her. They had the same skin color, similar last names and they shared the same culture. Was this not enough?
And… it wasn’t like she did not know Spanish at all. Her grandparents and parents were bilingual. She knew what part of Mexico her family was from. She knew when Mexico’s independence day was (#NotCincoDeMayo) and she could roll her R’s; she understood better than she could speak.
Spanish was a part of her life… it was not her whole life.
But to many kids there, and to many people in today’s world, speaking Spanish is the key to be included in the culture. The language is what makes you; it is what gives you validation.
I never learned how to say, “no hablo español,” without sounding ashamed. I would give a small, awkward smile, but soon I could feel the cloud of embarrassment rush over me. This embarrassment is what made me take Spanish more seriously. It’s what made me watch Univision, what made me listen to Tejano and Banda music, what made me encourage my friends to speak in Spanish around me. This embarrassment is what made me feel like I was not “enough.” If I couldn’t speak Spanish, I could not be Chicana.
For many other Chicanos, Mexican-Americans, Hispanics, and Latinxs like me, not speaking Spanish was a barrier that separated us from a large part of our culture. Our “Latino experience” is different from our Spanish-speaking brothers and sisters. But then again, our experience is different ― not any less. In the Latinx community, the idea of what makes one Latinx or Hispanic is an ongoing debate. It is sad that there is division and anger in my own community when there is so much going against us already.
“My inability to speak Spanish does not exclude me from the conversation.”
And this is another question I continuously ask myself — when will the judgment and criticism in our community end? I do not have an answer, but I do know that my inability to speak Spanish does not exclude me from the conversation.
I am now 18 years old, studying at a prestigious, predominantly white institution. The idea of clinging onto, and being disgustingly proud of, my identity has never felt more crucial. I can now proudly, without awkwardly smiling or hesitating, say “Yo soy Chicana.”
To my fellow non-Spanish speakers who are scared of the looks of disappointment from our community, who cannot put “bilingual” on our resumes, who scream the words to reggaeton music (because in our heads, volume equates knowledge): Please realize that you are not alone.
I know the feeling of “not being enough,” and of questioning if you can really claim the Latinx/Hispanic identity. Remember that the language is from our colonizers, and our ancestors were once harmed and beaten for being able to roll their R’s.
To my fellow non-Spanish speakers: Know that we are a part of the larger community. Know that your skin is something to be proud of and you do not need validation. The language is beautiful and we all are aware of, more than anyone, the benefits of being able to speak it, so know there is still time to learn.
And now to my Spanish-speaking hermanas y hermanos: I am not less than you. I am not a gringa or a mentirosa. I am not ashamed of my culture. I am not afraid of your judgment, your eye rolls, or your looks of disgust anymore.
To my Spanish-speaking hermanas y hermanos: I am learning. In fact, I have been learning. I do want to speak Spanish. To my Spanish-speaking hermanas y hermanos: Your ridicule and mocking when I do speak in Spanish is not appreciated. How can I be comfortable speaking the language when the community mocks me for “not sounding right?” Know that I can hear your judgment and whispers, but it does not make me feel ashamed anymore. To my Spanish-speaking hermanas y hermanos: My parents did not fail me. This is insulting and far from the truth ― the reason they cannot speak Spanish perfectly, and why they could not teach their children, comes from a time in history where speaking Spanish was wrong. Look it up. To my Spanish-speaking hermanas y hermanos: I am proud.
It took many years to reach this point, to love myself for loving my culture, for realizing that speaking Spanish is not the only thing that validates my identity. I am learning, I am trying, but I am happy with who I am becoming. My voice will not go unheard in the Latinx/Hispanic community. I love my brown skin. I love rolling the R’s in my last name. I love learning the language and being able to understand it better each day. I love the way I grew up, and the judgment I had to go through to reach this point. I love not having to question this part of me.
This piece first appeared on Medium.
