MULTITUDES

19 - Mi Cultura

College additionally served as an opportunity to re-invent myself, be a new person, create the version I envisioned myself to be. But I still don’t think I fully knew who that person was just yet. First and foremost, my comfortability or acceptance with my sexuality was still in question. But there were even self-doubts pertaining to my race, ethnicity and my ancestral background. It was evident that I was struggling with finding connection to my cultural identity as well. But I think it was still related to my hunt in defining myself and achieving a place of belonging.

You see, I saw white skin, peach skin, fair skin, all around me, even within my own family. On the flip side, I was surrounded by shades of black, brown and olive complexions, similar to the shade I wore myself. The realities of being around people with different colors of skin, made me more cognizant of how others are treated and perceived. I quickly learned that physical attributes, like the color of one’s skin, certainly plays into the abundance of privileges or lack thereof.

Racism in San Francisco, where I grew up, was not the heaviest thing I encountered, at least I don’t think it was. To me it wasn’t the color of my skin that made me different. It was the way I wanted to cut my hair, what clothes I wanted to wear and how I demonstrated wanting to be a “boy” and not a “girl” Those differences I felt held more weight and made me stand out. I often reflect back and can’t seem to uncover many moments of racial divide or bigotry. Or perhaps I just wasn’t in tune to those situations.

Okay, well, I do have one memory and it involves my family and I taking a trip to Mexico.

06/16/1995 Friday 11:32am

(Remember this format? Back to it I guess. Anyways…)

I am walking towards a barricade of people. The energy feels alive, pulsating, almost chaotic, with an air of what feels like tension. Passports are not required to pass through the border from the US to Mexico and vice versa. Passing through the border, lined with security, however, is mandatory. Together my family and I, all US Citizens, wait in the line. Finally, we get up to the front and my mother and sister who are fair skinned, light skinned, easily walk through, crossing the border from Mexico into the United States of America. My father and I are next, closely following behind them, prepared to walk right through as well. I hold his hand, glued to his side and before you know it, we are stopped. The two visibly tanned and brown folks, do not just get to walk through. Instead, we are pulled off to the side. In that instance, I think nothing of it, but something in me feels my father’s discomfort and my mother’s worry. They ask my father a few questions, as they thoroughly examine his photo ID.

The border patrol agent peers down at me and asks me two questions. The first question, “Who is the president of the United States?” I answer swiftly and correctly. The second question, “What school do you go to?” I answer quickly and confidently. I know the answers and I get them both right, partly because my Grandma drilled those answers into me before this trip, as if she knew that if anything happened I would be prepared to respond without hesitation.

Thankfully, we are cleared and able to cross back over, reuniting with my sister and mother.

I really had no idea why we were stopped and no one voluntarily explained why or what had just happened, so looking back I can only assume that we appeared to be of suspect due to what we looked like. But truly, who knows?

When I think of my my ancestral lineage I really only have my grandparents to rely on. Sadly, all of my grandparents have passed but I know the basics. My Father’s side migrated from Mexico. My mother’s side migrated from El Salvador and Puerto Rico. Then, due to colonization, I also have some Spanish and Portuguese in my bloodline too.

I remember particularly in High School wanting to rep the countries I was from so hard. Like wearing a t-shirt that said “Viva Mexico” with the flag or a necklace that said “Boricua” or vowing to eat Pupusas whenever I could. Eventually, I coined and adopted the label, Salvamexorican, a fusion of all 3 countries.

This leads me to the question of whether or not I speak Spanish. I do not, I am not a native or fluent speaker. I was not raised speaking Spanish in my household and did not retain the language even though I took Spanish in high school and breezed through it or some times cheated my way through it. I would receive bits of Spanish from my grandparents, but I was never enforced or encouraged to reply back in Spanish. I always replied back in English. I mean if you put a few sentences in Spanish in front of me and ask me to read it out loud or narrate it, I can and have a generalized accent to go with it.

I just know that I have this mental block even to this day of the shame around me not taking initiative to learn the language. I mean I’m even doing Duolingo every day, because, one, I don’t want to lose my streak, but I’m not taking it beyond that to apply it and practice it. But I guess it’s something? The fact is I feel super self-conscious, insecure, I get nervous and freeze up, especially if someone starts speaking to me in Spanish first before English primarily because of how I look. And that’s not to say I won’t try but I do get quickly flustered.

They say full immersion really does help with learning a language so who knows, maybe one day I’ll spend a few months in Mexico, El Salvador or Puerto Rico. I don’t know, but, I think I would really like that.