In Honor of Hispanic Heritage Month

Annabelle Rivera:

I have a hard time answering what being Hispanic means to me. My views on my identity have changed so drastically over time that it’s hard to pick a concrete answer. Being Hispanic is more of a vague concept to me, since I don’t have any contact with my Hispanic extended family. I feel that I haven’t had the stereotypical “familia” experience that a lot of Hispanic people in the U.S. talk about. The memories of talking with my abuelos are messily stuffed into my brain’s attic — yeah, they’re there, but it would be too much work to dig them out, so let’s leave them be, you know? The only Hispanic family member in my life is my dad (shout out Vic), and he doesn’t talk about it very much. 

As an unintended result, my views on being Hispanic are derived from my personal experiences as a (gasp!) white girl in the United States who had to open herself up to her own Hispanic heritage. I didn’t really care about being Hispanic as a child, since to me it was just a statement of fact: the Earth is round, the sky is blue, I am Puerto Rican. However, as I got older, and more internet-savvy, I decided that I wanted to learn more about that side of myself — and I’m so glad I did. I don’t think I would be part of the 14 East Pueblo staff if I hadn’t.

I associate being Hispanic with this period of learning in my life. I fell in love with being Hispanic. When someone brings up my last name, I like to say, “Yes, I’m Hispanic” with a level of pride and confidence that makes the other person more than a little confused. I love that my love for my background has surpassed the sadness I felt when I was belittled for not being “Hispanic enough,” but what does that mean? What makes someone who is a total stranger to me qualified to tell me who I am? I know who I am, and I’m proud of it.

Noel Reyes: 

After 12 hours of labor, my mother demands to hold me. At only 19 years old she faces the trial of motherhood, unsure of what’s to come. However, she embraces this new challenge with grace and pride. After the adrenaline wears off, my mother, exhausted, hands me over; I cry as I leave her warm chest. I find myself nestled in calloused palms, my grandfather’s misty eyes full of joy and hope as he stares down at me. Years of back-breaking work to provide for his family, years of dedication to his family and suffering he had to endure for living in America illegally and every bead of sweat and drop of blood has led to this moment.

Without knowing, I’d been handed the weight of my forefathers to carry on my shoulders my name, rich in history, as old as the days when we worshiped the sun. I look in the mirror and see my father’s sunken eyes and broad shoulders. I see my mother’s torched caramel skin and billowy dark hair. I was raised on my grandmother’s heartful cooking and strict guidelines while my parents worked all day. I’ve witnessed their struggle — their persistence for a better life. The fruits of their labor passed onto me; they invested in my well-being before their own. At times I feel undeserving, unfit to hold the torch for a brighter future, unfit to bear the responsibility that comes with being the oldest and to walk a road unpaved.

Being a second generation Mexican living in America means I eat chicharron with hummus and prefer sourdough bread over tortilla. It means I’m brown enough to feel burdened by society and yet too impure to feel connected with my people. Stuck between two sides of identity: Mexican and American, without a garrison to arm myself, calling for a truce in broken Spanish with a gringo accent. Living as a second-generation Mexican means hard work; it means walking in the crossroads and facing my own tribulations, just as my ancestors faced.

I am proud to be Mexican. I am proud to carry on what was started. Although being  Mexican in America can be confusing at times, ultimately it’s my truth. It’s where the raging fire in my belly comes from, where I can find my mother’s benevolent smile, where I find my uncle’s platitudes and grandfather’s proud voice. “Echale ganas mijo, eres Reyes.” Being Hispanic, being Mexican, is where my family is. It’s pride, honor and opportunity handed down to each generation. It’s kinship, and it’s who I am.

Dalaney Stanford:

To me, being Hispanic is about strength, community and tradition. Growing up, I was always surrounded by family who shared rich stories about their upbringings. Those stories emphasized their resilience in the face of challenges, and every day, I aspire to embody the strength they possess. My Hispanic heritage keeps me grounded and motivated in my daily life, as my family has shown me that with strength and perseverance, anything can be achieved. 

My Hispanic identity also highlights the importance of tradition. Tradition has always been central in my household where we celebrate holidays such as Día de los Muertos, Christmas Eve and New Year’s. Growing up, I attended school in Mexico, which further ingrained in me how deeply important tradition is. At school, we regularly celebrated holidays like Cinco de Mayo and Día de los Muertos. Events were organized and everyone participated in such a way that demonstrated the significant role tradition plays in people’s lives. Their devotion to these annual celebrations and the high level of participation they inspired is truly remarkable. 

While strength and tradition are important, neither would exist without community. Without community, tradition would fade, and it would be difficult to gather the strength needed to persevere. My family has always emphasized the value of community because it’s what keeps us afloat. We uplift and support one another, pushing ourselves to do our best and empowering each other in the face of struggles. Being Hispanic has shaped me in every aspect of my life, and I wouldn’t be who I am today without it.

Nick Hernandez:

Being Hispanic to me means living in two worlds.

No time of the year better demonstrates this than my birthday.

Every year I would wake  up to my entire family singing the classic birthday song “Las Mañanitas” to me in Spanish. It was a beautiful way to start the day and things got much better when I found the breakfast for me in the kitchen. My parents woke up early to buy it from a restaurant or make it homemade, and one lucky year my dad decided to make me

chilaquiles. No breakfast can get a Mexican kid like me more excited than chilaquiles.

It could not get more Hispanic than the mornings of my birthday and just being inside my house — it was like we were living in Mexico the way our house functioned.

We had created a Hispanic world, and the only way out was through the garage door and onto the sidewalk.

Outside our house was a different world and many things would change. I would switch my tongue from Spanish to English as I had more use for it in this world. At school, I would prepare myself for the disappointment of going from Mexican breakfasts to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch. While I enjoyed having the “Happy Birthday” song sung to me at my party, it did not compare to being serenaded with “Las Mañanitas” when I woke up.

Once the school day was over, it was time to go back to my Hispanic world. 

Balancing these different worlds is what being Hispanic means to me, and I wouldn’t change it for anything.

Header by Dalaney Stanford