Me, the Melting Pot

Growing up Latina in a predominantly white world was not tough. It was enlightening. Cultures precede any and all environmental qualitative factors. They are engrained in you from birth thru death, literally in some cases. My "mami" was an atypical Latina in terms of stereotypes and social constructs but she was nonetheless groomed by her upbringing in South America. Immigrating to the US as a very young adult, 19 or 20, she took a risk, a leap of faith, that still inspires me to this day. I can barely get off the couch somedays let along pack up and travel across the equator with hopes and dreams in my pockets along with courage in my backpack. She created a life for herself on her own terms, ignoring the social norms and scoffing at the assumptions an American society can quietly yet pointedly place on you. She built a loving home, a life packed with tough rules, tougher love and a belonging that cradles me to this day. My home smirked of contradiction in many ways. The exterior plain and very cookie cutter a la Americana Suburbia, manicured lawn and freshly waxed car in front. Open the front door and it's as if you are teleported into a secret little Peru. It's basically what you'd assume if you weren't Latino---larger than life images of Jesus holding his bleeding heart encased in gilded frames that were carefully brought to the States as carry-on luggage on one of our many trips to go back 'home', ridiculously oversized wooden crucifixes ripe for the hands of a pious giant hanging above each bed, habitually filled offering glasses (more later on this one), cluttered altars dedicated to the Saints adorned in fresh flowers and some more, yet smaller crucifixes. Mass on Sunday and yearly San Lazaro parties were the norm. I didn't understand why my other friends could go to the Mall by themselves on a city bus, have a boyfriend at age 12, do sleepovers every weekend, sneak a drink at the after-party and why I wasn't allowed to partake in these seemingly crucial, life changing, status-promoting landmarks of suburban youth. On the other hand, I had a phone in my room very early on, every new Barbie that was released, nails and hair done whenever I chose and lived a life of luxury by most standards. But there was a difference, even stronger than the outwardly visible markings of a bi-cultural home. At times, I wasn't white enough for the cool crowd packed with rich, white girls who played field hockey and wore ribbons in their ponytails. At other times, I wasn't Latina enough to really be part of the Latino crowd despite my fluent Spanish, legit Latino ideals and ability to salsa and merengue by age 2. This is the part they don't tell you. Despite feeling fully loved by my family and friends in general, there was still a part of me that didn't belong a hundred percent. As an adult it may not be of great import and is not as visible except in the fact that I'm closest to my family and have about zero close friendships with people not directly or indirectly related to me in some form or another. But as a teenage girl growing up and attempting to discover the me I was supposed to be, it was rather confusing at times. Lines were clearly drawn in black super bold thick Sharpie marker growing up. These lines faded over time and eventually melded with the gray, not so black and white, canvas of what would become my greatest masterpiece, me. And to be quite honest, I wouldn't have it any other way.

#culture #holycrucifix #thewhitelatina