(Con)Tested Identity
Before I even got to the main portion of the SAT, a question stressed me out. “What is your race/ethnicity?” jumped out at me, taunting me with the simplistic responses underneath. Filling out “white” would feel like denying my heritage, claiming that my dad’s side of the family was irrelevant to who I am, but it felt disingenuous filling out the blank next to “Hispanic/Latino(a)” since English is my first language and my skin has only the slightest tint of olive in it. I never really experienced the prejudice that many Hispanic people in the U.S face on a daily basis. Nobody’s ever told me to “go back where I came from” or treated me any differently because of where my family came from. The few times I felt different as a result of my Hispanic heritage were minor instances when I was younger, things I can easily roll my eyes at now. One time, a girl in my class brought in a Guatemalan shawl for show and tell that her dad had bought during his trip in Guatemala, and I was deemed the best person to model the shawl. This was obviously a minor, silly incident that pales in comparison to more serious instances of racism. Aside from those rare reminders that I’m not completely white, I’ve mostly appeared white to others, which has caused me to more closely identify as white.
[su_pullquote]When I hear snippets of their conversations in Spanish, when I hear Aunt Chole’s stories about life in Honduras, when I eat the Arroz con Pollo that my dad makes from his mom’s recipe, I know I could fill in the bubble next to “Hispanic/Latino(a)” and feel like I’m telling the truth.[/su_pullquote]The one time of year that I’m reminded of my Hispanic heritage is during the big Christmas Eve celebration that my dad’s family holds at his Tío Robert and Tía Ligia’s house where the whole family gathers together to catch up on the past year. My dad’s parents have many siblings whose kids grew up close with my dad and aunt. When I hear snippets of their conversations in Spanish, when I hear Aunt Chole’s stories about life in Honduras, when I eat the Arroz con Pollo that my dad makes from his mom’s recipe, I know I could fill in the bubble next to “Hispanic/Latino(a)” and feel like I’m telling the truth. However, most of the time, I feel like an imposter with my very Hispanic name, especially since I’m not fluent in Spanish. As someone from a light-skinned family that only speaks English, I’m fortunate to not experience prejudice and I know it, but I do feel disconnected, not truly Hispanic.
Although my parents wanted me to feel connected to my dad’s family by naming me “Isabel,” a Spanish name that in combination with my last name “Torres” announces my Hispanic heritage loudly, my grandparents wanted their children and grandchildren to fit into American society and culture as much as possible. They gave their children English names—“Richard” and “Rachel”—made sure their kids spoke English fluently, and refused to teach their grandkids Spanish. The only Spanish they taught me was when my grandpa tried to get me to call him “Abuelito.” Even that failed since little me insisted on calling him “To.” I spent years taking Spanish classes in an effort to become fluent, but I’m still less conversational than I want to be. I don’t blame them for their approach, even though it means I’m not impressively bilingual. It was a survival method, as they saw others mocking their language and their accents and wanted a better American experience for their kids and their grandkids. They met in an ESL class, immigrants from Spain and Honduras who were striving to find their niche in American society by learning the language as best they could. My grandpa worked as a bus driver and a meter reader, and he took night classes in the hopes of obtaining a higher-paying job. My grandma sewed costumes and saved money frugally. Even though neither of them had a college degree, they were able to send both my dad and aunt to college. Reflecting on my grandparents’ sacrifices helped me feel comfortable filling in the bubble next to “Hispanic/Latino(a).”
[su_pullquote align=”right”]Identity and heritage are inextricably political, even making up a question on the recently contested census. Yet they’re also deeply personal.[/su_pullquote]Identity and heritage are inextricably political, even making up a question on the recently contested census. Yet they’re also deeply personal. I don’t want to feel like I’m claiming a struggle that isn’t mine, but at the same time, I don’t want to reject my family or dismiss their sacrifices that have enabled me to live a relatively prejudice-free existence. I wish I was fluent in Spanish, and yet I can understand why my grandparents were reluctant to teach me. I don’t have any easy answers to those dilemmas, but I do know that in a certain way, I’ll be hovering over those Scantron bubbles for the rest of my life, forever grappling with this politicized aspect of my identity.
Isabel Torres ’20 studies in the College of Arts & Sciences. She can be reached at itorres@wustl.edu.