Warm aromas linger in my memories, and those tender thoughts of being raised by my abuelos(grandparents), allowed for the realization that being raised by them wasn’t a conventional upbringing; it was an experience and a lesson.
From birth, I was raised with my abuelos in a home filled with loud contagious laughter, and air filled with potent smells from traditional Mexican dishes filling up the little air space in a tiny home already filled with too many Tias to count. It was this home that laid the foundation for how I would speak, behave, and perceive others. Needless to say, the time I spent with my grandparents shaped my perception of the world around me - every story they told me formed some sort of new idea, and each idea sparked curiosity, and most importantly taught told me to cook, cook, and cook some more, because good food feeds and creates a healthy heart and soul.
Seeing my abuelitos more than my parents wasn’t because they abandoned me; it resulted from my first-generation parents working hard to provide the American dream for my brother and I. For a brief second, I recall being embarrassed by my abuelos pulling up to pick me up from first school in Victorville. I recall feeling uncomfortable and lonely as everyone else had their parents drive up in nice cars, and I would walk alone to my grandpa parked around the corner. But that embarrassment never lasted for more than a minute as my abuelo taught me the freedom of “choice.” - so I could’ve chosen to be embarrassed by how I was raised, or I could choose to relish that I am a product of their tender love and care. Plus, at least my grandpa always had a kid's container for me, filled with either hot chocolate, or coffee to welcome me to the car everyday.
Back at my abuelos casa after school, my grandma resided. She no longer drove anymore because a police officer had scared her; he yelled at her for being Mexican, and took away her license for no specific reason - and with that went her confidence and created her to be fearful and protective of me because of the brutal world stereotyping people for their race. Fortunately, well not necessary in a good way, you’ll see later why I wouldn’t ever face the same issue.
Even through all my abuelas hardships, my grandma still has a giving and nurturing soul, but is also a “Big Chillona” (crybaby or emotional person). Yet, at 4’8 in height, she is the most sassy woman you’ll meet. Which to me is funny, as my mom is not as empathetic or sassy, but very stubborn and hardheaded, and weary of the world. I think it was her Army life that made her an adamant person. It was unquestionably my grandma's empathy and my mother’s patriotic persona that taught me at an early age the importance of serving others and how to love and care for people. Later, this lesson sparked me to start a grassroots movement to establish a nonprofit to help the veterans in my community - but that's a different story-a novel of its own.
On the other hand, my abuelo was a past hippie and a war hero in Mexico - with long, luscious red hair, a fierce attitude, and a determined wild spirit, I’m often compared to him. He taught me the meaning of freedom, which has remained in my soul, tying me back to my appreciation for those who have fought for our freedom. My Grandpa would often point at all the scars on my belly from all my surgeries, and point at his own and say, “twins,” and then continue….“the battles we have fought can either define us or make us stronger.”
Although this experience seems humbling, it also caused a struggle of not fitting in- in being Mexican enough, or American enough. My abuelos struggled with English, and I with Spanish, so “Spanglish” was the native language in our home. As a result, I was judged by my closest peers for looking and speaking like a “gringa” (caucasian), teased and shamed for my red hair, freckles, and light complexion, and assumed I was adopted.
As a young girl, I never understood why they saw me different, and outcasted me - maybe it was because I didn't “look”like them or speak more than one tongue like them. I moved schools 7 times because of my dad's work, and each school had the same story - I was a “white” Mexican. Looking back now, I would have never been able to be where I am now without these little hiccups. My freshman year at Etiwanda, I felt like I was finally in a culturally diverse high school/environment, and I was now able to, and talk to those who don't fit in a “category” of race because they are 2nd gen that don't get the funds/time/or efforts because now we are deemed “American enough” because our family somehow made it in the US then had us, or even relate to those who are mixed races and aren’t accepted by either side. We all related in that way that we don't always look like who we ethically are, but most of the time we still hold those values and are the same as our family non the less.
Even now, my closest friends will joke that I am “too white looking” to be Hispanic of any sort, and I just laugh - laughing not to be rude, but because I know that my family in Mexicali & Guadalajara, are blonde, blue eyed, and lighter than me, and that in reality race shouldn’t have a stereotypical “look”. I am affirmed in my identity and who I am based on the fact that I eat Abongias, Chile de Renos, Mole, spending my weekends trying to remember all 50 of my Tias name, and dancing my heart out in parties that have no reason to held, rather than to just a celebration of family.
Knowing now my roots, AND being engrossed in a massive Mexican family, affirms that I am Hispanic, and my “look” doesn’t dictate my culture. My abuelos shaped this identity in me by never leading me astray from my culture, even when the world tried to take it away from me.
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