My ethnicity has never been something I’ve thought about extensively. I am half Puerto Rican from my father and half white from my mother. What the latter half consists of specifically, I will not know without a DNA test since my mother and her parents are not entirely sure of what they are besides a touch of Irish. I grew up with my mom, my father having passed away when I was very young, which resulted in a lot of jokes I made about being raised white. That was it. That was the extent of my thoughts on my ethnicity. That is until recently.
I was approached the other day by my professor, who I’ve known for the better half of my college career. She started to inform me of a multicultural media conference happening at the end of November in New York. She said, “I don’t know how you identify, but I know you’ve written about things like this in the past. I think you should apply.” She even offered to write me a letter of recommendation.
I left the classroom slightly dazed and confused as I fully let her words sink in. How did I identify? I know what I am, of course, but the thought of being included in a group of individuals who are heavily influenced by their culture made me second guess myself. I am Puerto Rican, but I feel I lack a lot of the cultural characteristics and experiences that others grew up with.
I don’t speak a bit of Spanish. I can’t cook to save my life, let alone a Spanish dish. I don’t listen to the music or know how to dance the way others know how to. It feels like the only thing Spanish about me are my curls and the fact that I can roll my r’s. Suddenly, those jokes I made about being the “whitest Puerto Rican” don’t seem so funny anymore. I feel like a fraud.
I grew up in a neighborhood that is very diverse in just about every aspect you can think of. As I look back on the years when I was surrounded by different individuals, I remember feeling secure. I did not care about the fact that some of my friends were bilingual and that some of them came from a strictly white household. To me, we were all the same. So why is it that now I feel almost guilty for claiming a side of myself that I was not exposed to? Just because I did not grow up with it should not mean that it should be ignored. If that was the case, should I ignore that my father ever existed?
It’s almost ironic that when I was applying to colleges, I was told to check off the little box that said Hispanic/Latino and yet, I’ve faltered years later when I was assumed to identify that way. Though I identify primarily as white because of the family I am surrounded by, I also identify as Hispanic. It’s the reason why my summer skin darkens more than the others around me, as if to correct anyone who doubts my roots. It’s the reason why I love to repeat the phrases I hear in Spanish class with an accent.
It’s the reason why I’m me.