Jen's Journal

I grew up listening to the whistle of the train passing through. To the smell of dog food every week day. To the sound of bells on the street that signaled raspados and elotes.

We used to blast Los Temerarios while doing our chores on the weekend. My sister’s first love was cumbia. Mine was bachata.

My first time going to Mexico everyone made it a point to remind me where I came from.

“Eres del Norte?” they would ask with jealousy lingering in their voice.

I knew the language. I knew the culture. But I was never one of them. Even the teachers treated me differently. Like I was special, like I mattered more than anyone else.

And then I came back to Colorado half way through first grade and was almost held back. The teachers treated me like I wasn’t worth their time. The kids pointed and laughed at my hand me down clothing.

My entire life I felt like I didn’t belong in either place. I’m too Mexican for white people, and too white for Mexicans. In college one of my friends was offended that I didn’t know Blink 182. I made them a whole playlist in Spanish just so they could see that half of what I know is in Spanish.

It wasn’t until recently that I realized I am both. If I want to blast Selena while doing my chores, I’m going to. If I want to listen to Rezz on repeat, I will. If I want to put salsa on everything I eat because I hate the taste of bland food, I most certainly will.

I love being able to pick and choose which parts of each culture are unique to me. Being Hispanic means whatever I want it to mean.

I am Mexican American. I love Halsey and Queen and the neighbourhood, but I also love my Spanish music. I love dancing and dia de los muertos and tequila, but I also love reading and writing and knitting. But most of all, I love combining two cultures to make my own.