I was born 15 minutes from the banks of the Rio Grande, where the chile was hot and the fiestas lasted until the early hours of the morning. My family’s home videos are filled with images of my doting abuela calling my sister and I her chiquitas. Never was a Christmas Eve complete without red chile tamales and a steaming bowl of posole. I think back fondly on my grandmother teaching her daughter-in-law (my mother) the proper ratio of lard to anise for her secret, award-winning biscochito recipe.
Even after my family left New Mexico and moved north to Denver, we filled our new house with piñon incense to remind us of home. And my siblings and I knew that as soon as the first cold snap came through, we would be returning to the desert for the annual Balloon Fiesta. I was only 4 years old when I learned the art of folding and filling paper bags with sand and tea lights to line our driveway, and to this day my family spends December 23 lighting up our neighborhood with luminarias.
As I begin to think of my own future and start to plan for how I will raise my own children, my abuela often reminds me that red and green chile are household staples, and that your huevos rancheros can never be too spicy. My cousins give their nodding approval as I struggle to learn Spanish so that I can teach it to my children someday. My tías offer prayers to Our Lady of Guadalupe for my future and advise me to do the same.
Despite the rich tapestry of New Mexican culture I was raised around, I feel a sense of bitter sadness when I think of raising my children in the same culture. Being a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl in a Latino family was never easy. My mother and I experienced prejudice wherever we went in Albuquerque. And even my brother and sister, who are half Mexican, have been snickered at for their lighter complexion and poor Spanish.
The last time we were visiting for a family reunion, my sister and I took our cousin shopping at the Coronado Mall. A group of teenagers pointed and stared at us, as we clearly looked out of place. Out of the jumble of Spanish words neither of us understood, we caught “guera” and “pendeja” which we were both all too familiar with. It had been years since I’d been referred to as an idiot white girl, but the words stung just the same.
I find myself at a crossroads, deciding whether to give my children the vibrant upbringing in Latino culture that I was given, or protecting them from the prejudice that I experienced from those who considered themselves to be “real Mexicans.”
At the end of the day, despite being 100% white, I identify a lot with the Latinos I was raised around, and I want my children to know their family’s history and culture as well. They shouldn’t have to grow up afraid of ridicule merely for embracing a culture they know and love.
I don’t want my children to find their identity in the color of their skin or in whether or not they can perfectly roll their r’s. I want my children to find their identity in the number of experiences that shape them into individuals. Racism and colorism tell us that our skin tone is what makes us who we are, but shouldn’t we instead be defining ourselves by the food we love, the religion we practice, the neighborhood we grow up in and the people who have helped mold us?
My identity is a balancing act between growing up in a white, Protestant home in Denver, and a Latino, Catholic one in Albuquerque. But my experience is not a unique one. Many Americans have had to become comfortable with their blended identity and the prejudice that comes with it, whether it’s being called a guera, a mulatto or any number of other derogatory names. Only you can determine what cultures and experiences make up the patchwork of your identity, and it isn’t up to anyone else to decide if the percentage of your blood is high enough to define you as such.
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