I am a symphony composed of everyone. Everyone I have known, and everyone who has known me. My nature, my attributes, the way I speak, the rhythm in my dance. It all comes from those who walked this earth before me. I am fragments of many people, stitched together into one. That is heritage.
I often pause and ask myself: Why am I this way? Why do I crave rhythm like its oxygen? Why does being around family feel less like an obligation and more like survival? The answer lies in my roots.
Lately, the idea of heritage has been heavy on my mind. My younger sister, who goes to a predominantly white Catholic high school, is facing the same struggle I once did. The labels sting: “white-washed,” “too Hispanic,” never enough of either. I’ve written before about this middle ground, and how it sneaks into your identity whether you want it to or not. But here’s the truth: being Hispanic can’t be measured by how “white” or “ethnic” you appear to others.
Heritage is the warm, fuzzy feeling when I think of my Mama Rosa, the most influential Hispanic woman I’ve ever met. A woman of courage, kindness and gratitude. It’s the comfort of knowing that when I go to a family gathering, there will be carne asada, arroz con pollo, and, if money allows, pernil. It’s the unshakable joy of dancing until my calves burn, sweating through the music but unable to stop smiling. It’s tradition, it’s music, it’s putting family first, always.
My first step toward self-love was learning to love the parts of me that were planted long before I existed. It came through late-night talks with my mother about how Hispanic women are often underrepresented, overlooked, and underestimated, and how I had to fight to be different.
i’m So when I think of Hispanic Heritage Month, I don’t just think of a label or a cultural box to check. I think of it as a celebration of survival, rhythm, love and pride. A reminder that I carry the strength of many before me. That I am, and always will be, the fragments of my people, whole, unapologetic, and proud.