I had never really considered what being Latino meant to me until Lance Rios of Being Latino asked. It’s something that I have, at times, taken completely for granted and at other times I have resented as an unasked for burden. I love my culture, don’t get me wrong, but there have been times in my life where other people have left me feeling that I have something to prove. That I have to prove my worth as an individual because I was poor, because I was from the Bronx, because I was Latino. There have been times where I have felt that I had to even prove that I was Latino, or Latino enough, to people who were old enough and educated enough to know better than to categorize something as ephemeral as cultural identity.

I am the only daughter of Puerto Rican parents. My father was born on the island and moved to New York when he was still a baby. I don’t know anything about his father, he died when I was very young and he was someone I never met. He lived in Puerto Rico his whole life, as far as I know, and had a whole other family separate from the one he created with my grandmother when they conceived my father. My grandmother has a typical “indigenous” appearance. She is olive complected with fierce eyes, thick eyebrows, strong thick hair, and a wicked sense of humor. My father inherited her family’s dark eyes, dark hair, dark skin. There is no denying my father’s cultural heritage; he screams island.

My mother was born and bred in New York to Puerto Rican parents, parents who came from the island, spoke fluent Spanish, but still undeniably retain the looks of their European ancestry. My aunt has blonde hair and hazel eyes. My grandmother’s maiden name was not Hernandez or Ramos, it was Grau. Grau from her German father, Grau which means gray in German. My grandfather was half French, with laughing blue eyes and a terrible temper to which my grandmother’s missing teeth can attest. They were both the end product of the colonization of the island by various European entities over time. My mother is light-skinned as a result but no less Puerto Rican for it.

Neither of them had an easy time growing up. Never fitting into either world. My mother was ridiculed and bullied for her light skin, rejected for being Latino even among other poor children. The school system reinforced a sense of shame when she entered school speaking no English. She was forced to only speak English at school and at home and developed an aversion to speaking Spanish at all. When she did, as she got older, she was teased for speaking with an American accent. I am sure my mother felt very confused and at least somewhat embarrassed by her mixed up ethnic and cultural heritage, but it wasn’t something she spoke of very often.

My father on the other hand was full of half-baked stories of his ancestry. His pride for his culture, and often ignorance of history, often prompted him to accept legend as truth, as his story of La India, the taino princess, would prove to be. He loved his culture and alternately was filled with self-hate because he felt that it was an obstacle to achieving success in a world dominated by white men. He resented my mother’s light skin and he even considered changing our decidedly Latino last name to something more American. His internal conflict is something he passed on to me, though he seems to have passed over his only son. He never taught me Spanish because he feared that teaching me the colloquial dialect he spoke would do me no favors, and as a result I stuck out and never fit in with my family because it branded me as an outsider.

As an adult I have had to wrestle with the feelings that being Latino have raised for me. On one hand, I cannot help but love my culture and its strong, proud people. Puerto Ricans, at least the Nuyoricans I know, are passionate, intense people. We are intelligent and proud. We know how to have, and show others, a good time. When I think of my heritage I think of energy: the frenetic dancing, the heartfelt music, the well-seasoned food, and the soul of a conquered but unbroken people. I feel proud to be a part of that. I also have, at times, felt that I didn’t fit in because of the way my parents sheltered me. I was raised Catholic but never went to religious instruction or church. I speak only broken Spanglish and am too embarrassed to use it with my grandmother, who speaks only broken English. I went to a predominantly white, affluent, and Jewish middle and high school where I certainly did not fit in. My education led to bullying and the common epithets “preppy bitch” and “sellout.”

Then, when I got to college, I had to cope with people who were so proud of their heritage and accomplishments that they felt it was okay to usurp mine. They were the reason I was there, through their lobbying for more Latino students. I am sure my grades, SAT scores, and community service had nothing to do with it. When I rejected their assumptions of what my experience as a Latino should be, they began to show me the ugly side of being Latino, the narrow-minded, insular side. “Well, she doesn’t even speak Spanish anyway, so how does she think she’s one of us?” “She already said she doesn’t look like us so I don’t get how she thinks she is Puerto Rican.”

It’s hard not to internalize that hate and I think it hurt most coming from “my people” than anyone else because at the core of myself, there is no question as to whether I am Latino. There is no such thing as being Puerto Rican “enough” and anyone who wants to question it is just spoiling for a fight. It’s confusing the way the world categorizes us, how we categorize ourselves and each other. I check off the “White” box on ethnicity questionnaires because it tells me to, because Latino is not a race, it’s a culture. But despite my European ancestry, it is clear I am not white; take one look at me and it is clear that I am not black. My indigenous roots are present in my blood and is perhaps where I might associate my heritage most closely, but it feels wrong to claim that as my heritage. To own the suffering of an extinct people.

It has taken me a long time, and having my own children, to come to terms with my identity. I had to learn how to live my life as me, the whole me, not just one aspect of me. Not just my cultural identity, but who I am at the core, the essence of my existence. How I would define myself, what it means to be me. What are my likes and dislikes, aversions and motivations. Who am I? All of it despite any box I might have to check or any box into which other people might want to put me.

I am Latino. I am happy and proud to be Latino. I consider myself a good Christian, even though I no longer practice Roman Catholicism and am active in the Episcopal church. I am a woman, a wife, and a mother. I am a daughter and a sister; even if I am estranged from my family, those ties can’t be cut. I am a friend, a mentor, a confidante, and a conspirator. I am a manic-depressive and I am a cynic. I am suspicious, sometimes paranoid and lazy, but also intelligent, loyal, and generous.

I am complicated and that’s okay because I am me.