Do you speak Spanish?

I love going to the Mexican grocery store. I love listening to Mexican music playing from the overhead speakers and hearing people talk to each other in Spanish. The prices are great and the produce is fresh and I love ordering meat products like chorizo and arrachera (skirt steak) from the butcher in the quantities I want. I love finding products that remind me of traditional Mexican meals and the years we lived in Mexico.

So it doesn’t bother me to talk to people in the store in Spanish. This is an interesting area of discussion, because I know that we are in the United States, and although I speak English fluently, I find comfort in speaking to people in Spanish when they talk to me in Spanish.

So when the cashier asked me if I spoke Spanish, I was happy to say yes. I realize that I may not seem like her typical customer and I could have lied to her and told that I didn’t speak any Spanish or maybe hidden under a quiet mutter of acknowledgement of her words, but not spoken any further. But it does not shame me, like so many others of my generation, to speak to someone who thinks they can relate to me because of the color of my skin. It didn’t matter that I was born in the United States and spoke perfect English; I could not change the fact that I was the descendant of generations of Mexican immigrants, so my features, the color of my hair and skin identified me. So if a cashier at a grocery store felt comfortable directing a conversation to me in Spanish, I could do nothing else but acknowledge who I was and respond in the same language that she so comfortably spoke.

Many argue that there is shame in being of a certain culture and they may insist that we are Americans, born and raised, and we should leave where we came from behind in the past. But it is my belief that we should try everyday to identify ourselves as individuals and people who do matter in this world, because of and regardless of our heritage. Personally, I don’t want to leave this earth without having contributed a piece of myself to history, whether it’s through my child, through my work, or through my actions. What I do find shameful are the stereotypes that surface because of what others conceive to be the truth. It brings me sadness that others of my own culture do not appreciate the hard work we have gone through to reach a point of acceptance by all cultures in this melting pot of a society. It’s liberating to know that we understand American politics or a certain genre of music, there is pride to feel as smart as the Ivy League graduate who happens to be working alongside with you on a project at work, and there is a quiet sense of accomplishment when we have a discussion with a colleague who happens to respect our opinions.

Isn’t that what we all dream about? Our ancestors wanted to find a better life for us in this country to be able to pursue the dreams that we could not have pursued otherwise. It shames me to think that all this sense of determination was wasted and the goals I sought after and taught my child to seek were for nothing. That no matter what I do, I will always be a statistic – part of a minority that is underappreciated, not respected, and looked down upon. So I will speak Spanish when spoken to in Spanish and I will speak in English the rest of the time, either way, I am still me, and that will never change.

~A