Once a year, my Latinx heritage is celebrated from mid-September to mid-October across the United States. Brands come out with collaborations, bookstores place Latinx authors front and center, and festivals are held across the country. As a chapín (Guatemalan), it’s one of my favorite times of year. But that wasn’t always the case.
My mom is Guatemalan and grew up in Guatemala City. My dad is of European descent, and grew up in Mexico before moving to the U.S. in high school. They met when my dad was on a business trip to Guatemala, and later got married and had my sister before eventually moving to the States permanently — then, I was born.
Spanish was spoken in my house, Latin music rang out through the stereo on Saturday mornings, and my parents even came to my Spanish class in elementary school to talk about traditions. That was cool, but there was always something missing: my sense of belonging. While I knew my parents were from a different culture, I didn’t think I was, since I was born in the U.S.
From kindergarten through high school, I went to a predominantly white institution. Going to a small school with about 100 students in my grade, I could count the people of color by hand — I was surrounded by people who didn’t look anything like me or have a different cultural background that wasn’t American. Something that contributed to the disconnect with my identity was the ignorance of others. In middle school, two boys were making jokes that I’m Mexican, and while I was unsure of my identity, I knew I was not Mexican. When I told them that, they laughed and asked “What are you then?” I felt embarrassed to not have a clear, confident answer.
Silently, I had been having an identity crisis — and once I became aware of it, it was not going to fly with me.
It wasn’t until my junior year of high school that I felt a shift. I was watching a documentary about the wave of immigration that hit New York and how the children of immigrant parents started denying their roots and did not wish to use their birth name or partake in their traditions. As someone who hadn’t cared about her own heritage, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I began to cry and left the room.
The documentary unlocked something in me. I began thinking through the last years — microaggressions, conversations with friends and family, certain things I held onto but wasn’t sure why (like how Wizards of Waverly Place centered around a Mexican-Italian family). Silently, I had been having an identity crisis — and once I became aware of it, it was not going to fly with me.
I began to look more closely at how being Latina influenced my life and the values I hold; what makes us special. The conclusion I can come to? It’s our hearts. My people have the biggest hearts that transcend time and space. We express love through affection, yes, but also when my mom gives la bendición before we leave the house. It’s in the way we sit to make tamales together, a dish that’s been around since 8,000 BC. It’s in the way my dad brings me a snack when I’m studying, and the way my cousins send care packages to the States when possible, because being countries away doesn’t change familial ties. It’s in the way I can meet someone who’s Latina and become friends with them on the basis of culture, only for it to blossom into lifelong friendship that feels like family.
Now, I realize that not only am I lucky to be Latina, but I’m lucky to be Guatemalan.
Now, I realize that not only am I lucky to be Latina, but I’m lucky to be Guatemalan. We are not a big country by any means, but that doesn’t matter. Doors are open to every neighbor, distant relative, and pets. We want people to succeed, grow, and find safety in each other. We are able to do a lot with little; we are resourceful, proud, and humble.
It may be Latinx Hispanic Heritage Month currently, but every day is heritage month when I carry it with me.