Elizabeth Atencio

Engl 1220

Project 1

20 February 2022

I am Hispanic

Hispanic. It’s a loose term with many different definitions. Some people define it as

merely someone who speaks Spanish, while others define it as having some Spanish decent-

whether it be from Spain, Mexico, Puerto Rico or other nationalities. I grew up with the second

definition mentioned, and by that definition I am Hispanic. But, like everything related to race

and ethnicity, everyone under the Hispanic category is expected to look like it. They are

expected to have brown skin, brown eyes, etc. But that is not always the case, and regardless of

what color your skin is, there is a certain prejudice against the other color.

My parents are both legitimately Hispanic. My dad’s family primarily came from

Mexico, my great grandpa was an immigrant from there. My mother is a slightly different story,

with her grandma’s family being from Spain. Obviously there was mixing from both sides of the

family, but neither really mixed with whites. My family is mostly from Texas and New Mexico,

and both places are highly populated with people of color, in other words, they’re minority-

majority states. I never really questioned who I was, who my blood came from, until I was

surrounded by people who see race and ethnicity by color only.

I grew up in a small town in New Mexico, and was surrounded by people of the same

ethnicity-Hispanic. To me, I fit right in. I was with my people. But, as I became older, I realized

that some people did not think the same way. There was no question about my parents, everyone

thought that they were obviously Hispanic. Me, on the other hand, was blonde and had blue eyes.
I remember one night when my sister, five years older than me, asked my parents if I was

adopted or if she was. I was so confused because we were family, I grew up in this family and

never thought about coming from somewhere else, someone else. My parents looked so hurt that

the inevitable question had come out. They were hurt that Ashley had even asked that question

because they knew I was their child, with their genetics and blood with no doubt. After that, they

proceeded to have a talk with me. They assured me that I was Hispanic with no doubt, just

sometimes genetics work in crazy ways. It also helped that in my mom’s family(a pretty big

family, my great grandma had twelve children, my grandma four) every family ended up with a

lighter skinned person. It showed more that I was theirs because as I grew up I definitely had a

mixture of their features. I never felt that I was treated differently because of the way I looked,

except with older people. I didn’t realize it then, but all the older people referred to me as the

little “guedita” which means blondie or white girl. But I am Hispanic.

Fast forward to seventh grade, my parents made me move schools because the town,

Pensaco, I grew up in was not a good place to be, education wasn’t taken seriously, drugs and

other things were the main thing. I moved to a school where there were more white kids than

Hispanic, and the town itself was very white. My first day there, I remember all the kids asking

me to repeat myself because they couldn’t understand me-my Spanish accent. I spoke Spanish

mostly with my grandparents but I soon lost that ability. I tried to lose my accent as much as I

could, while still talking normally with my family. I also tried to stay away from the sun, so I

would be able to stay pale.

A couple years later, I had to get confirmed. So, I had taken the classes and everything

back in my hometown. All the kids were normal with me, and honestly it was refreshing to be

with them again. So, I started going back to the way I used to be. The kids in my school were
more accepting with who I was, since it was apparent from the beginning that I am Hispanic.

Around the same year, my grandpa passed. During that time, I spent more time in Penasco. One

weekend, we went to a church bingo, and since I was trying to get confirmed, I had to help out. I

was passing out the bingo cards, until I came to a table with a bunch of old men. This one man,

who I had known forever, through my grandpa and he was my second grade teacher’s husband.

He spoke in Spanish making jokes about what the hell a white girl was doing here, and she didn’t

belong. My teacher had heard him and saw the tears in my eyes, because I could obviously

understand him. She slapped him and scolded him, yelling about how I was Margo’s

granddaughter, and started to apologize over and over. This man apologized too, and tried to say

he was joking with me, but I knew that prejudice didn’t go away. I cried to my mom that night

because I never thought I’d be ridiculed for my features. Then came the funeral for my grandpa,

and he came, like the rest of the town. It was already a hard time, but as people were giving the

family condolences, some would just skip over me. A couple even asked my grandma or my

aunts who the hell I was and what I was even doing there. Everyone in my family was so

offended, and probably tried to coddle me a little more. It was the same talk over and over,

“don’t let people try to tell you who you are because you are a part of us, and never question it.”

From that point, I went through another transition. To try to look more Hispanic, and be

more like them. I would spend hours outside on the trampoline trying to get as dark as I could. It

helped that I could never really get burned, I would just take in the sun and tan. A blessing, some

would call it-that I wouldn’t get burned, which was, thanks to my genes. I’m still here, in this

phase because I want people to know who I am. It’s a defining thing about person-race, ethnicity.

I don’t want to be seen as a white girl, I want to be seen as the Hispanic I am. Even when I came
to college and met new people, they asked where I was from because of my accent. I was proud

of these moments because I was showcasing my ethnicity.

As time goes on, more people are realizing Hispanics come in different colors, sizes,

shapes. Hispanics are not exactly characterized by dark skin. I think more people have had the

same struggles that I have had, and have chosen to show the world that there is more than just

color to a group of people. I’m still learning how to navigate it. I won’t lie, I wish I were born

with the skin of my parents, maybe even their hair color and eyes. I am more accepting of the

accent I have, even though I tend to hide it, depending on who I talk to. I’m even starting to

incorporate the Spanish I remember into my daily life, dialect. But there is one thing that never

changed about me, and that will be a part of who I am. I am Hispanic.