written by anonymous
To be an immigrant’s daughter, there is a certain weight that sits with you. From the day you are born, you’re split in two. To be taught two languages, two cultures, two homelands. In the United States, to be an immigrant is to be lower. To be a Mexican immigrant is to be scum. As I grew up, I was taught to hide my identity. I spoke in English in public and Spanish in private, to favor American pop culture over Mexican. My golden skin was something to be ashamed of, to stay inside more. My locks of curls to be burned and tamed into straightened hair. My heart has always been torn into two.
At home, my family was proud of the life they worked so hard to make for my brothers and I. Now, it is our job to show that we are educated, organized, and hard working; that university is the goal to change the narrative for my family. My mom attended high school in the U.S. and graduated, but it wasn’t until 18 years later when she was 32 years old that she got her bachelor’s degree. She was the first in my family to ever receive a degree in higher education. My mom set the example that anything was possible, that my brothers and I had our futures handed to us; we were supposed to be nothing more than exceptional. In my parent’s eyes, that meant to hide our culture that America saw as less-than.
My brothers and I knew how to play the part; after all, we experienced the everlasting backlashes of America. Our whole lives, we have been told we didn’t belong where generations of my family worked for us to be. I was told to go back where I came from, and countless times I was picked on. Kids would throw my pencil case to the floor, leaving my things scattered, and tell me to pick it up “cleaning lady.” My brother was told to “mow the grass gardener” by a player of the opposite team on the soccer field. My little brother is a clean slate, doesn’t know any Spanish, and has yet to come to understand his culture.
The aggressions are something I’ve realized is my price to pay for living in the United States. Something I’m not sure I’m equipped to take anymore. Since going to university, I’ve been faced with micro aggressions, and it’s now supposed to be my job as the minority to educate my classmates. It’s aggravating, and parts of me wished I had never stepped foot in Missouri. Countless phone calls to my mom asking if I am overreacting or if they are being racist. It’s hard to be in a place that I have worked to be, and yet, in many ways said or unsaid, that I shouldn’t be in. Despite this, I continue my academic career in hopes of raising the percentage of 19% of Latino that have a bachelor’s degree, joining my mom and my older brother and showing my dad that his countless days of sacrifice have amounted to something.
Now, I stand here, not in the U.S. or Mexico, but in Italy, a country that my grandparents would have never imagined one of their grandkids would be in. I’m here interning for a food publication, where I had the opportunity to cover an event dedicated to Latino food. For once, I saw my culture being celebrated on a bigger stage instead of being shamed or transformed into something others could easily grasp. For once, speaking Spanish isn’t alien-like, but a bridge for me to communicate with others. Being Mexican doesn’t mean I’m associated with drugs, gangs, or the lower class. I was told by one of the chefs that, “It’s so wonderful that you’re Mexican. Your culture, your people are so bright, giving, and happy. Thank you for everything you have brought here.”
For once, I was seen for who I am, who my family is, and for how my people are. Parts of me never want to leave Italy with my little time spent here. The problem is, if I stay here, what was all that my family struggled for? To be an immigrant’s daughter is to be split in two.
