The Bittersweet Truth of My Intersectional Life
I am not brown.
I wish that I was as dark as my brother, who inherited my mother’s complexion.
I wish my skin had enough melanin so I didn’t have to fight for the world to see me.
They look at me, they look through me, but they do not see me. I have grown accustomed to feeling unseen and out of place. Sometimes I think how remarkable it would be if I could stop silently begging the world to understand me. “I am more! There is more to me than you think!” I shout, but the words echo and fade into nothingness because no one can hear me.
How wonderful would it be to not have to explain why I have something unique to share in the ongoing conversation about race; how my perspective is not simply one of a white woman. To add my own thoughts without immediately feeling the flood of confusion ripple throughout the room as my peers wonder what gave me the right to say something in the first place.
To voice my opinions and thoughts without prefacing them with the caveat that I have grown to loathe:
“I’m half Mexican, half Irish, but I look more like my dad.”
As I say this, I feel a rush of hot embarrassment flash throughout my body and without looking down, I immediately know that my chest and neck are flaming red. But I say this sentence anyways. I have to. I have to say it so that I can be heard.
I am not seen or heard without first justifying why I deserve to be.
How wonderful it would be to be familiar with the feeling of walking into a classroom on the first morning of the quarter and, to my delighted surprise, have the Guatemalan boy two desks away start up a conversation with me in Spanish before I even say a word.
"Class dismissed. Thanks for a great first day. Stay dry!"
I bounce out of the swinging bronze doors and fly down the stairs. Immediately, I call my mom and burst into tears. For the first time in eighteen long years, someone had truly seen me without me explaining why I should be seen in the first place.
I am not white.
With skin pale in comparison to my Latina peers, I am labeled "gringa" as a child. I keep my mouth shut and listen to their jeers in a language they believe I cannot understand. I learned to speak the language of my culture throughout high school; I worked hard to become adept in Spanish so that one day, I might've been able to open my mouth and pass as a native speaker – that maybe one day, they could know that Chicana blood runs through my veins simply by the sound of my voice.
I would like to make it clear that I am not ashamed of my Gaelic half. It is an integral part of the way I perceive the world. Every year, I am pushed around by the strong gales of the Irish Sea. My curls tighten in the salty air and my freckles dance in the heatless sun. I knock around a soccer ball in the back garden and hang upside down to kiss stone castles. I can relax in the easygoing nature of my home across the Atlantic. But it is never enough for my warm and wild heart.
In Ireland, it is easy enough to pretend that I have never chased barn cats underneath the California sky and felt the soothing warmth of adobe tiles seep into my feet. It is easy enough to act like I am unfamiliar with the barren hills of the Santa Clara valley and the way the deep orange sun sinks under the horizon.
They do not see the Mexican girl in the amber hues of my eyes or in the dark curls that cascade over my shoulders. Should I bring their attention to the fact that I am inherently different than them or do I bask in the inexplicable relief that finally, I look like I belong somewhere? They accept me because of my skin color – would they still accept me for my blood?
What is the most terrifying to admit is that this attraction toward inauthenticity is actually the manifestation of deeply-rooted shame. The most vulnerable part of me, the part that agitates over where I belong in the world, draws me towards inauthenticity, simply so that I can feel like I belong somewhere.
Do I want to be so afraid of my identity to the point where I avoid revealing the fact that I am half-and-half? In Ireland, conveniently “overlooking” the fact that I am part Hispanic helps me fit in. In America, I ache for my Mexican heart to be recognized.
My identity is not a buffet; I cannot pick and choose who I want to be or when. I know this, I have known this for as long as I can remember, but I still feel inexplicably torn between two worlds. This overwhelming sense of internal conflict chokes me in its suffocating grip and I feel resentment spread her tangled roots into my heart.
What will happen when self-loathing integrates itself into the very fibers of my body?
I can feel myself beginning to shrink back into silence, where my voice is not heard and my idiosyncrasies hide behind my legs. I do not want this feeling of uncomfortable conformity to convince me that I should keep my truth to myself. So I think, I reflect, and I change.
My most authentic self is located at the intersection of wit and warmth, of tea and tamales, and of humor and home. I am still learning how to confidently and proudly build myself on the junction of two different cultures.
I am still learning how to speak Spanish without trying to sound like it’s my first language – how to be okay with the fact that I am clearly not a native speaker and that I am not yet perfectly fluent.
I am still learning how to speak about my heritage without turning all shades of red, but I no longer flush when I hear my old nickname.
I do not need to justify the space that I fill.