Growing up, I didn’t really fit in. My father, who I talk to almost every day, is Mexican and has never lived in the US. My mother is Anglo-American. They married in Mexico in 1967, the same year that anti-miscegenation laws were banned across the US. I was born five years later in Mexico City with red hair, white skin, and blue eyes. When I was one year old my parents divorced and my mom, my sister and I moved to California where we have lived ever since.
Trinidad, my Mexican grandmother, had red hair.
In third grade, my sister and I were taunted by neighborhood boys who called me Burrito, and my sister Taco Tits. Growing up in the Reagan Era, I can’t tell you how many people upon learning that I am Mexican said, “You can’t be. You must be Spanish.” As if being Mexican was one of the worst things a person could be.
In high-school when I got into UC Berkeley, my college advisor told me that it must have been because of Affirmative Action. The implication being that I had no reason for acceptance except the fact that people of color were granted priority entrance regardless of their merits. And later when I dated a young Black man and the LA riots hit, he told me he couldn’t date any more white girls. “I guess that means we can’t date anymore”, I said. “You’re not white”, he smiled. “You’re Mexican”. How convenient–for him.
Growing up with others imposing their views on me about my identity led me to hide who I was for a long time. But in college I started learning about the history and politics of race in our country. I realized that so many people of color had it a lot worse than me. My Mexican heritage gave me just a taste of what others who can’t pass for white go through. I became acutely aware of the privilege that came with the white color of my skin.
Instead of letting others tell me who I was, I started to grapple with how I wanted to classify myself. Did the One-drop rule apply to me? Or was I a white Mexican? Well, not really because I’m also Anglo-American. Was I Mexican-American? Not quite as that label has been assigned to Americans who are of pure Mexican decent. Maybe I was half Mexican and half American? Hmmm…that implies that the my upper half is one ethnicity and my legs and feet the other.
In my early 30s, I had an epiphany. I realized that I don’t have to choose one over the other. I’m not either/or. I’m both/and, without a doubt and damn proud of it, thank you very much!
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