“But where are you really from?”
Growing up in America, this is the phrase I heard my entire childhood, and what fueled my identity struggles.
As a kid, whenever someone asked me where I was from, I would always say Ecuador. If I ever said anything else, the person asking would usually ask more questions just for me to tell them where my parents were from. It was much easier for me to get straight to the point.
Although I was born in America, I never felt like I belonged here. I always felt different. A lot of this had to do with the fact that I wasn’t white. I’m brown, had an accent when I spoke in English, and was in English as a Second Language (ESL) classes. Nothing about me screamed American. That’s why, when I was nine, I was so excited to go to Ecuador. I felt like I was finally going to the place where I truly belonged. The land where my ancestors, the Incas, once ruled with pride. I was going to a place where people would see me as one of them, and not different.
But that wasn’t my reality.
Instead, I was met with family members who called me “gringa”, a term used in Latin America or Spain to refer to a female foreigner, usually from the United States. My family members laughed at my accent, told me I was too tall for a girl, and pointed out everything about me that made me different from them. I was astonished; this was the biggest slap in the face I had ever received. I felt like I was too American for Ecuadorians and too Ecuadorian for Americans.
Where did I belong?
My struggles with my identity worsened after that trip. At first, I tried everything to fit in with American culture. I refused to speak Spanish for a while, hoping it would help me lose my accent. I avoided bringing Ecuadorian food to school and felt embarrassed whenever I had to speak Spanish in front of my classmates.
But once I got older, I realized I couldn’t continue with this same mentality. It wasn’t healthy for me; I began to hate myself.
My mother, who immigrated to America in her 20s, told me that I should always be proud of my heritage and never be ashamed of it. Even though my mother has called America home for almost 23 years, she has always kept our Ecuadorian culture alive in our household, through food, music, shows, movies, and traditions.
I realized, to keep the history and culture of my ancestors alive for future generations, I shouldn’t be ashamed of it but instead embrace it. I don’t have to be “more Ecuadorian” or “more American”; I can be fully both. I have the freedom to embrace both my cultures instead of being forced to choose one. I don’t pay attention to people who try to tell me the contrary.
Now, I fully embrace both of my cultures.
I try my best to connect with my Ecuadorian roots by learning how to cook traditional dishes, celebrating traditions, and even learning how to speak a native Ecuadorian dialect called Kichwa. I embrace my American culture by embracing its diverse foods, music, traditions, and taking pride in being American.
For most of my life, I felt compelled to pick a side. But now I understand that every part of me has a place, and instead of choosing, I should embrace every version of myself. Because in the end, I am neither from here nor from there, but from both, and that makes my identity worth embracing.