When You’re Not Mexican Enough

My Mexican heritage has been prominent from a very young age. I was about nine years old the first time I visited Mexico City, aka the “motherland.”

“Mija, when I was your age I already had to take care of three of my siblings—get them dressed, feed them and take them to school. I only went to school until I was about twelve because of I had to work and put food on the table,” my mom would tell me as we laid in her bed with the lights off, television on, and my dad snoring in the background. “Remember to Thank God for all that you have—what I would have done for a bed, toys, and clothes like yours.”  I look up and stare at the popcorn ceiling and can only try and imagine my mom as a child. Weird.

After a few seconds of silence, “When we get there I’ll show you the little room where I lived with your aunts and uncles, it is very small but it was home.”

“I can’t wait to see what it’s like. Goodnight, mom.” I turn my head and land a kiss on her left cheek. “Goodnight Mija,” she turns her head, her eyes twinkle even in the dimly lit bedroom as she reminisces on the most difficult time of her life.

 “Try not to speak too much until we get to your Tia’s house” she told me, as the plane is about to land. I pay little attention to her words as I am more focused on how the hell this plane is going to land and how am I walking out of here in one piece. It was my first time on a plane. Ever. But I do as I’m told.

 We get to my Tia’s place, “Mom, why couldn’t I speak?” “Because this area is dangerous.” I give her a scoff, are you kidding? “But I’m Mexican.” “No, you’re American.”

Hmm, no. I’m Mexican-American. I didn’t realize that this was a defining chapter in my life. My identity became ambiguous from that day forth. I’m not Mexican in the motherland. How’s that? I am a foreigner in the U.S., yes I’m a citizen, but I’m no gringo either. I’m that dash in “Mexican-American”? I’m neither here nor there.

One film that I grew up watching, on the famous Latin singer Selena, described this Mexican-American identity most accurately. She grew up in Texas and learned to sing in Spanish at a very young age. In this scene she has just gotten the opportunity to sing in Mexico but her Dad is unsure of it because after all they’re Mexican-American. Huge difference.

He adds: “Our family has been here for centuries and yet they treat us as if we just swam across the Rio Grande. I mean we gotta know about John Wayne and Pedro Infante. We gotta know about Frank Sinnatra and Agustín Lara. We gotta know about Oprah and Cristina… And we gotta prove to the Mexicans how Mexican we are and we have to prove to the Americans how American we are. We gotta be more Mexican than the Mexicans and more American than the Americans both at the same time. It’s exhausting. Nobody knows how exhausting it is to be a Mexican-American.”

You see, especially living in Los Angeles where we are a melting pot of races and ethnicities, I am no exception. A majority of us are “dashes.” According to the 2015 U.S. Census Bureau, only about 26.6% identify as “white alone, not Hispanic or Latino,” in Los Angeles.

Itzel Estrada describes her experience as being Mexican-American yet identifying herself as Mexican. “I say Mexican. Because I feel I am more in tune with that culture like food, music, traditions and language. I feel like I fit.” Her voice cracks and shoulders automatically shrug as though being asked a tricky question. “In high school I felt like I couldn’t be myself completely because of the people [I] were surrounded by… not that I felt ashamed but judged.” It’s a journey to understand and accept because that identity embodies all of you and that’s pretty beautiful.

We’re given that freedom to make our identity with or without a dash.

So you might ask, what are you? I’m Mexican-American. But my foundations are Mexican. The struggles, the values, the chaotic family who has to cut you off mid-sentence by raising their voice. The grandmother who left her children behind to work in the United States. The mother that dropped out of middle school to feed her brothers and sisters. The father that started working at five-years-old selling gum to strangers walking by. Mexican. Sometimes iffy Spanish and all.