Learning to Love Latinidad:
My Lifelong Journal
By Allegra Figueroa
Table of Contents:
Chapter 1
2008 - 2014: Elementary SchoolEverybody here looks like me although I’m not fully aware of it. All the students around me have tan skin and last names like Sanchez, Ramirez, and Gonzalez. I blend in with the crowd of students in the hallways, like being wrapped up by a small security blanket. In my lifetime, I’ve blended in everywhere whether it involves buying tasty paletas from a local street vendor, joining my nana to make tamales for Christmas, or heading to the swap meet to get a coctel de elote. Unknowingly, the traditions and flavors of my community were woven within me. I’ve yet to find out why it feels so right. My family is all I know. The south side of Tucson is all I know. To me, this is just life as everybody lives it. I almost take it for granted right now.As I progress through my early education, from 1st grade, to 2nd grade to 3rd and so on. I started to make the association that Spanish was the norm at home and English was reserved for school. I quickly excelled in my studies, eagerly seeking the praise and validation from my white teachers. The sight of those A+ grades, accompanied by those happy little faces, became my source of great pride. My mom started to boast about me to the rest of my family too. It all felt so fulfilling. I know how important my education is to her. She reiterates time and time again that school is the path to a better lifestyle. School ultimately becomes my gateway to the American dream. I could own a home with a white picket fence and grass that never dies, where I can throw extravagant barbecues to celebrate the 4th of July.But my world turns completely upside down as I move schools once 4th grade arrives. My teacher looks like me and the rest of the students. Her name is Mrs. Leyva. She asks me something in Spanish. I refuse, almost like a reflex, and I answer her in English.Looking back on it, it’s hard to admit, but I was essentially taught that my community and culture didn’t hold as much value in the world as others. It’s sad to say, but the American ideal means everything that is white. As I grew up, I wanted to be everything that being white meant. Simultaneously, I cultivated this notion of Latinidad as being synonymous with a lack of education. I essentially rejected my own culture.
Chapter 2
2014 - 2017: Middle SchoolToday was the last straw. The boys at school keep reminding me of my biggest insecurity: my arms. They say “ew” with a disgusted look on their faces. They even ask, “why are your arms hairier than mine?” I just want to yell at them, “Trust me, I don’t like it either.” I hate that they even mention it. I hate that it crosses their mind. So I finally decided to cross that line and go through with shaving my arms. I couldn’t stand to look at them anymore. I regret it almost instantly. Everybody is going to notice and know that their comments got to me. What will my mom say? What will my classmates think? How will my cousins react?The weekend arrives and I see my cousins for our monthly trip to Nogales, MX to get our braces done. In the car on the way there, I can’t stop itching my arms. It’s as if I can feel every single follicle of hair growing back in. Every time I place my arm on something, I feel like a cactus violently pricking everything I encounter.I’ve never really enjoyed the trips. My mom warns us about Nogales as if it’s this scary, monstrous entity. “Don't stray too far!” “Hold each other’s hands!” “Don’t talk to strangers!” Apart from that, Nogales was a complete culture shock to me. It was the first time I had ever seen a debilitating state of poverty and it forced me into the uncomfortable position of being a bystander. I have to face the people who are begging for money and look at the children with broken soles on their shoes. And I can't do anything about it but watch.I will ultimately never forget being in such an uncomfortable position while simultaneously feeling the uncomfortable sensation of my prickly arms.
Chapter 3
2017 - 2021: High SchoolI don't see anybody like myself at school anymore. I thought a magnet school was supposed to be diverse. I feel so isolated. I feel so different and like I’m constantly being put in a box.My teachers underestimate me. There was a specific moment in which the class had to take a survey for the school. One of the survey questions asked, “What is your GPA?” I filled it out and as the teacher walked by, he looked shocked and surprised. He asked me, “Is that really your GPA?” I couldn’t help but take offense. I thought to myself, “Why wouldn’t it be? What were they expecting?” This was the same teacher my best friend and I would spend lunch time with. The same teacher I confided in about my struggles at the school. It especially broke my heart because I aced every single one of their tests, yet they completely underestimate me.Apart from the teachers, school in general has not been the most welcoming experience. The collectivity of being referred to as “us” is gone; I’m “them” now. Honestly, I’m starting to believe I’m not the target audience for this type of education. They primarily cater to the white students. That’s who “us” is. That doesn’t include me. I see it on the television news too. I’m the “other” that is seeping through America’s borders, spreading drugs and violence. I’m the “other” that is infiltrating the American workforce, taking jobs from others and refusing to pay taxes. I’m the “other” that is an illegal parasite extorting all that America has to offer.The rhetoric especially bothers me because I know it’s not true. In fact, I’ve just come back to Tucson from a week in Guadalajara, Mexico and I know just how beautiful and peaceful the country can be. Along with my mother and her best friend, I watched Mexican Folklorico dancers maneuvering their skirts, creating stunning patterns. I visited museums that showcased the history of maize and exhibited political murals that discussed the separation of church and state. I looked above and there were colorful streams of papel picado connecting from neighbors roofs symbolizing community and togetherness. In my surroundings, I also saw stunning murals depicting indigenous women and members of the LGBT+ community who are often underrepresented and overlooked. From corner to corner, Mexico’s artists and citizens cultivated an environment that welcomed absolutely everybody.I wish the world could latinidad through my eyes and experience the beauty that Mexico has to offer.
Chapter 4
2021 - Present: CollegeI was invited to join my partner's family in preparing some corn tamales. I already had an idea that every Latino family has their own unique way of making tamales, with each believing their version is the best. But it was fascinating to see just how different they were. I closely observed the masa-making process. The masa was a runny consistency. My family’s masa is almost like a spread. They also grated cheese to put inside the tamales. The abuelita warned me, “Don’t put too much cheese so they don’t turn greasy.” I joined the assembly line and felt a lot of pressure. I felt a need to impress them, I needed each one to comply perfectly to their standards. I also watched as the family bickers and as the aunts forget their children’s names: “Itzel, no Belen, digo Yoya -tu chingadera.” I laugh and I draw comparisons with my own family.There's something about the experience that brings me a sense of peace. I am grateful to the family as I've had the opportunity to view my culture from an outsider's perspective. They ultimately gave me the chance to experience latinidad with a fresh point of view. Being surrounded by the familiarity of Latinos allows me to feel safe, comfortable, and warm. This feeling is welcoming and nonjudgmental as well; it feels right and has become my serenity over the years.During my experience obtaining a higher education, I've learned some disheartening statistics - Latinas make up a mere 2% of lawyers and earn just 56 cents for every dollar a similarly situated white male makes. These figures enrage me, but they also fuel my determination to make a difference. Rather than succumbing to frustration, I'm choosing not to become invisible. Just like my family and my partner’s family, latinos will never be invisible. We’ll keep being loud and making noise, whether it's with our gritos or our protests. I’m not going to perpetuate the notion others have of us as being ill-informed, and I’m going to do it while speaking Spanish and boasting about my heritage.
