“A la tierra que fueres, haced lo que vieres.”
Growing up, this phrase was one that I learned to abide to. “To the places you go, do as you see,” was key to the adaptation of this daughter of two Mexican immigrants into a society filled with American values.
As a young girl, I remember waking up to ‘merengue’ music each morning, my mother making coffee and eating ‘pan dulce’ while my father picked out his suit for the day and I frantically finished that last math problem before heading out to school. From there, we would drive blasting the music to the tunes of the latest Spanish song on the radio and have karaoke sessions and long talks with my mother as she gave me her ‘bendicion’ or blessing before shutting the car door behind me. Little did she know that by shutting that door, I was leaving one world and entering a new one.
Being a Mexican-American in the States is definitely a challenge. Coming from a strict Spanish speaking community, I wasn’t taught how to speak, read or write in English.
I remember my early grade school years taught in Spanish, and it wasn’t until the fourth or fifth grade that I studied tediously to learn and master the English language.
Although my parents speak both languages, they instilled in me values that they received growing up, and language was no exception. In my family, speaking English at home was frowned upon.
To this day I can still see my father’s furious face every time I would slip out with English at the dinner table. “No hablo Ingles,” “I don’t speak English,” he would say. The major identity crisis that I underwent growing up was probably the most stressful part of the situation as a whole.
I was torn between the ‘tortillas’ or white bread, beans or potatoes, ‘Abuelitas’ hot chocolate or Starbucks, but most of all, having to decide whether I was Mexican or American.
At school I was always the “Mexican” that talked about going to the quinceañeras and birthdays with piñatas, but at home I was known as some would say, “white-washed,” as I walked around in my American Eagle sweatshirts complete with my version of the English tongue.
I remember feeling left out when I spoke about the latest Spanish songs, or about the previous night’s ‘novela’ with my friends. Even the food we ate was seen as weird. To my friends, eating cow intestines in a taco was the most disgusting thing ever, while to me it was just another Friday night dinner.
There were times when I would lean towards one nationality ovet the other. The endless times I drove around with my friends and not knowing the classic song that was playing on their stereo, I longed to have that American pop-culture knowledge and be able to just sing along like they did. I remember feeling awkward and thinking how different I was from the rest of my friends although ultimately, we were all American.
However, when I would take that long drive and arrive back home, I would be welcomed to the soothing sounds of my dad playing his guitar, my mother in the kitchen filling the entire house with the sweet scents of “canela” tea and leaving me with a great sense of pride to roots I wished I was more in touch with.
For a long time, living between two worlds was tolerable just as long as the two didn’t collide. Having to switch off from Spanish to English when I had friends over at the house was somewhat confusing when both the parents and friends from school talked at once.
It was at my house where my friends tasted “jarritos” or “gansitos” for the first time; just as it was the first time my parents attended a recital when I performed at school. When the two worlds finally collided, there was a sort of awakening. Although my parents were extremely Mexican, there was still a balance. I learned that even they had learned to adapt in a foreign land, but yet kept their own customs and traditions near.
In my household we listened to both Andrea Bocelli and Mariachi Sol de Mexico. Although we did love our homemade “mole” and “menudo,” there were times that we enjoyed Italian delicacies such as fettuccini alfredo or even a good steak.
I began to understand that it was perfectly fine to love tacos and burgers, love Juanes and The Beatles, love my mother’s homemade “caldo de pollo” and Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup, and thus love being Mexican and American. I realized that my identity was more than just one of the two, but more of a mixture and combination of both. I learned to take both cultures by the reigns and create my own identity and make the best of my situation. I found my identity.
Most importantly I adapted to the place where I lived simply by watching those around me and staying true to my own roots, always.
