Brown and Confused
Over the weekend I decided to do some typical high school senior stuff. No, not go to a party, more on the opposite end of the spectrum. I applied for scholarships!
(image courtesy of giphy.com)
Actually, just one scholarship-- The Hispanic Scholarship Fund. It was all poops and giggles till I came across the very last section of the application. (Okay I might have lied, filling out scholarship applications is anything but poops and giggles.) The last section consisted of two essays. "What does being Hispanic mean to you?" and... Actually I don't remember what the second one said, but that's not to be focused on anyways.
This question lingered in my head as I stared at the blank box on my computer screen. Hispanic. I knew I was Hispanic. I mean I could tell that by looking at the color of my skin or at the trail of cousins I had. I had just ever paid much thought to what being Hispanic meant.
Growing up in a predominantly Mexican city, I was surrounded with people who are just like me. The ones who have a nice little tan going on and know the difference between tacos and flautas. You never really notice that you're a minority in the rest of the county. You don't pay much attention to what you guys as a community stand for.
Since kindergarten I was in an ocean of little brown people just like me. It was a never ending roll call of Dominguez or Martinez. Plus at the age of 5 not much thought is put into ones ethnic identity. It's more about who has the best crayons.
It was not till high school when I began to become aware of what ethnicity and race meant. Real life issues on race opened your eyes on the millions of people who identify with you, or the tons of million who do not. Especially when signing up for the SAT or applying for colleges, you must choose a box, or a few, based on your race.
I stared at the screen for a box that said "Mexican" or "Latino." I found none. At the age of 17, finally understanding that I was a part of a unique culture and how wonderful it was, I had not one clue what race I was.
Naturally, as any confused teenager would do, I asked my friends what I was supposed to put.
"Oh, you're supposed to put white." White. I am not white. I will never be white. Why am I to put white?
(image courtesy of giphy.com)
Of course, at the time I wasn't questioning why I was considered white. I was more focused on finishing the registration and eating some chips. But while filling out the scholarship application this haunted me.
My best friend Google and I, went to work. What exactly is Hispanic? What is race? What is ethnicity? Apparently, it's all one big gigantic mess that I'm not sure I can quiet understand just yet.
There's a definition for race that states "a group of people sharing the same culture, history, language, etc." Now, excuse me if I am wrong, but I am pretty sure that me and Ms. Johnson from down the street do not share the same culture, history, or language.
With some more research I learned that Hispanic is an ethnicity and not even us as a whole, quiet understand where we fit in with a race. Through it all, I began to develop a sense of pride for being a Hispanic.
Hispanic means being a part of something greater. It is about having a rich history. It is about having enchiladas and chile colorado at your disposal and carne asda on Sunday afternoons. It is about not knowing where you fit within racial terms, but having a sense of belonging with each other.
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