#115: To #88: I agree full-heartedly that no one should tell you who you are. Your identity as Mexican-American does not ride on your ability to speak Spanish or on anyone’s beliefs of what constitutes your identity but your own. Some Mexican Americans have been here for many many generations – it makes perfect sense for their Spanish to dwindle out of usage. Even in newer immigrant families, our parents often encourage us to speak English only. This is the language we use most in our daily lives. Although I would never dare tell someone who they are or who I think they are, I will admit I am sometimes guilty of thinking these things (i.e. that some of my friends who don’t speak Spanish but have parent(s) who ONLY speak Spanish are more “American” or “white” than they are “Mexican American”). I know this is wrong, which is why I would never vocalize it, and why I try to steer away from thinking in this insulting, reductive way. However, I guess what sparks these thoughts in me are my own doubts and insecurities of what being “Mexican American” means to me. I too have lived in the States for most of my life, I am probably a lot more “American” in my consumption habits, I too have felt like a “brown speck in a white sea” and I battle forgetting the Spanish language every day. However, I just can’t imagine not making it my #1 goal in life to master the Spanish language as much as I can so that I can actually hold an intelligent conversation with the people most dear to me, my parents. “Mexican American” to me implies not only having grown up with a mother who makes tamales, tortillas and albondigas, but also making an active attempt to communicate with my loved ones, to immerse myself in their culture, and to retell their stories so as to keep our heritage alive. Like many of my peers, I am a daughter of immigrants who had to go through a lot of physical and emotional pain in their youth and in their journey entering the States as “illegal immigrants”. Hearing my father’s stories of growing up with only salted tortillas to eat every day, of having to stop going to school at the age of 11 to work to help his mother buy food, of leaving his much-loved country at the age of 18 to risk his life wading through icy cold waters late at night, of finally becoming a citizen, learning to speak English and visiting the “the Happiest place on earth” with his new fiancé only to be yelled at to “go back to Mexico, wetback”, has shaped my consciousness from a very early age. I know that both my mother and father are not happy here but that they have sacrificed so much of their happiness and dreams of returning to the country they love for us, their children, so that we might have opportunities we would otherwise not have. I cannot see myself as “Mexican American” without being part of the struggle to fight against the racism they experience and to honor their stories. How do I do this without doing my best to learn their language, to listen to their stories, and to share these so their sacrifices are not in vain?
Posted on: Mon, 10 Mar 2014 05:44:20 +0000
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