La Mexicana
I’m American any way you look at me. My parents, their parents, and their parents’ parents were born in Mexico. I was born in the United States of America. All of us were born in North America. We are all American. However, for the sake of this blog whenever I refer to “Americans” I’ll be speaking about people from the USA.
I am a foreigner to Nicaragua, just like my fellow PCVs. And though I’m sometimes mistaken for a Spaniard (I don’t know how either), rarely do people recognize me as “American.” In this way I feel like I’ve had to work harder to prove myself. As what? I don’t know, an outsider—a US citizen, someone that is willing and capable to work? But the reality is that people and kids don’t just flock to me because of the color of my skin, hair, or eyes, something I’ve witnessed that does happen to chele (white- American) volunteers. It seems to me, because I am a brown U.S. American, people and kids don’t connect to me as quickly. And more than I thought it would, this has affected me, who I am—or who I thought I was, and how I interact with people here in Nicaragua.
According to Peace Corps, only about 29% of volunteers are minority citizens. This leaves us minorities with a lot of work to do. On behalf of all the minorities in the US, we have to somehow convince the local people we work with and live amongst, that not all “real-Americans” are white, blonde, and blue eye-ed. We inherently work harder to fulfill Peace Corps’ second goal (see below) because contrary to popular media, the USA isn’t filled with tall, white Americans. Simply by being visibly different than the white stereotype, we are forced to explain over and over again, our racial heritage, our family history, and how yes, we are “American.”
The Peace Corps Mission
To Promote world peace and friendship by fulfilling three goals:
1. To help the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women.
2. To help promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the people served.
3. To help promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans.
No one’s service is the same. You can’t compare your accomplishments to somebody else’s.
In Peace Corps, so many factors play into what any given day will turn out to feel. However, one factor has remained constant throughout the past almost six months of my service—the color of my skin, my ethnicity, my background, however you want to phrase it.
At the beginning of my service, one common refrain I would here from other volunteers was, “If only I could speak Spanish like you, things would be easier.” Some have even said, “You’re lucky you speak Spanish,” or “It’s easier for you because you speak Spanish.” In my head I am always thinking, Really? What’s hardest for me to accept about these statements is that suddenly here, some of my peers have made me feel like I’ve lived a privileged life because I’m a native Spanish speaker. When in reality, my entire life back in the States has been the exact opposite. At an early age I learned that it was not okay to speak Spanish in school. I became an “other” because of the color of my skin and the language I spoke at home. In my experience, being an American volunteer in Nicaragua has not been easier for me because I speak Spanish. Instead, what I’ve begun to realize is that the color of my skin and my first language have created additional challenges cheles haven’t had to face.
I still haven’t quite come to terms with my feelings regarding my ethnicity and my placement. This isn’t to say that I am not happy with who I am, it is only a thought that I haven’t been able to shake off. And since I’m still sorting through all the emotions I have around this topic, I’ll give you some examples of incidents that have made me question who I am. And, honestly, in many cases these moments have almost brought me to tears.
One
During training I was sent to train at a Catholic school with two other volunteers. They look like what a foreigner would imagine someone from the USA would look—light skin, blonde hair, blue-colored eyes. And there I stood next to them—tan, dark brown hair, brown eyes, short. The young elementary school girls were immediately fascinated with the other’s striking platinum blonde hair and American good looks. The children would run to them, full fledge sprint towards them whenever we walked into the school. I stood next to them like an uninvited plus one.
I began to tear up, but quickly brushed my tears away, wanting no one to notice. I’m sure the kids never meant to make me feel like they did, and most likely the other volunteers hadn’t even noticed. The second time it happened, I tried to not take it personally. Every time after that I simply learned to deal with it because this had become my new normal.
Two
Whenever I introduce myself to someone and they ask me where I’m from, I’ll tell them I’m from the States, but they’ll always have follow-up comments regarding a) my Spanish, or b) the fact that I have Latina features. It’s never enough for me to say I was born in the States. I always have to justify the color of my skin. My parents are Mexican, I tell them once they’ve made me uncomfortable enough.
This is the absolute worst. This is the part I dread of nearly every conversation I have with locals. As soon as they learn of my Mexican roots, I’m no longer just a volunteer; I’m the token Mexicana. I’ll get ridiculous questions or comments about Mexico— a country I’ve never been to and whose traditions I know very little about. Emotionally, it's been extremely difficult having to constantly justify my citizenship status.
Three
Sometime in the past two weeks, as I walked to a friend’s house in town, an older woman stopped to ask me, “Con quien estas aqui?” A simple question when translated literally. She was asking me who I was in town with. “Oh, I’m a Peace Corps volunteer,” I began to answer her. “No, pero con quien estas?” She asked again. After I failed to understand her question three more times she asked again, but in simpler terms, “Quien es tu esposo?” Who is your husband? That’s what she was asking me! Who was I here with, who was my husband… because I am Latina, and I’m a new woman in town. Surely, I must be here because I’m married to a local.
This situation didn’t make me uncomfortable until the lady realized how wrong she was. After I told her I wasn’t married to anyone, and that I was simply a volunteer living and working here, she profusely apologized and looked terribly embarrassed for having been so forward with me.
While demonstrative of the often overwhelming machismo here when she assumed I had to be married, this incident also illustrates another challenge that native-spanish speaking volunteer face. Other PCVS often vocalize their desire to have deeper conversations with locals, to understand everything they’re told, and to be able to communicate all their thoughts. For me though, I’m often put in uncomfortable situations because I do understand 90% of what is said. Unlike non-native speakers, I can’t pretend to not understand people when a conversation doesn’t suit me. I can’t play dumb and say, “no entiendo,” or simply change the conversation to a topic that sounds similar.
And when I truly don’t understand what is being said, I question myself, my identity. During elementary and middle school I was often made to feel like I wasn’t smart enough because of the color of my skin and the language I spoke. Because of that, I stopped speaking Spanish in high school. I knew I had to hide part of who I was to fit in. Instead of developing the language my parents tried to teach me at home, I occupied myself with other things. I succeeded in many ways, but I failed to appreciate my parent’s culture. And, unexpectedly, I am reminded of that each and every day here in Nicaragua.
More than making me realize that I am not what people see as a “real American,” my time here has made me realize what an outcast I truly am. If Central Americans don’t see me as “American,” and Americans continue to other me by labeling me “Hispanic,” and Mexicans don’t believe I’m Mexican, then what am I?
Ni de aqui, ni de alla, my dad would often joke about me when I was younger. It means, “From neither here nor there.” It was something I never paid much attention to and would roll my eyes at, up until this past year. Now, it’s become the only real label that fits.
As a final note, I'd like to add that I have no intention of terminating my service early. I am incredibly honored to have been chosen to serve in Peace Corps Nicaragua. Our staff is amazing, and I know I can go to any one of them for support. Lastly, I'd like to thank every single one of my fellow Env68 volunteers! I am surrounded by loving, motivated, encouraging, passionate, hard working, and all-around wonderful human beings. As we go through this eye-opening (and certainly challenging) journey, let's never forget that we are here for each other. Much love.