A journey to reclaiming my identity: Rediscovering my Mexican roots

by Jacqueline Aguiar

Jacqueline grew up in Middleville, MI, in a Spanish-speaking home with her parents, both Mexican immigrants. During her time in elementary school, she learned English. After years of pushing back on her Mexican identity, she learned that her differences only made her unique and capable of seeing the world different. That is, she now recognizes the privilege that comes with her bilingualism which allows her to see the world through two rich cultural lenses. She is currently a junior at the University of Michigan studying Anthropology and Spanish, with a goal of becoming an immigration lawyer dedicated to advocating for immigrant rights. Her story below was originally published for the Michigan Daily.

From a young age, I always felt ashamed of my native tongue and heritage. It all came from a whirl of feeling physically insecure and verbally lost. Every morning, as the sun peeked through my window, I hid away the rich language my parents had gifted me since birth. I locked it in a mental vault, fearing the disapproving glances and wrinkled noses of my classmates. At school, my appearance was different than most because of my darker complexion, and going home wasn’t always my savior because it was difficult to emotionally connect with my family due to my lack of Spanish proficiency.  

In my mind’s eye, I picture a small, innocent version of myself — a 7-year-old girl with dark brown pigtails, round brown eyes framed by glasses — sitting nervously in a classroom in the heart of Middleville, Mich. My friends only knew English. In fact, I cannot remember a single person who was bilingual. Snack time became my greatest enemy because anytime I sat down to enjoy my Chips Ahoy cookies, little kids would ask me, “How do you say cat in Spanish?” or “How do you say my name in Spanish?” I felt like a token to them since they never cared to understand who I was as an individual. I felt isolated and wondered if I would ever fit in.

Going home every night, I felt the same sense of isolation. As we gathered around the dinner table, I felt like a stranger in my own skin. It wasn’t my physical appearance that set me apart from my parents, but my inability to express myself fluently in the language of my ancestors. At the dinner table, as I ate my home-cooked rice and beans with corn tortillas, I lacked words. My mom would ask me, “How was school? What did you learn?” but I was mute. Not because I didn’t want to speak, but because I couldn’t find the perfect words in Spanish to formulate my thoughts concisely. I simply responded with, “Bien Ma,” because creating a sentence in Spanish was an obstacle I could never tackle. 

Every day felt like a loss, a constant reminder of my lack of identity and fulfillment. My parents had instilled in me a deep sense of Mexican pride, but it always seemed to fade away the moment I stepped into a public setting. I never felt truly connected to my roots, and the idea of calling myself Mexican felt foreign, despite growing up hearing about our Hispanic heritage. 

But then, something changed. I was fortunate enough to visit my parents’ birthplace — Jalisco, Mexico. It is where Tequila originated, and the music is always perfectly intensified to match the atmosphere. Mexico’s vibrant streets overflow with the pulsating rhythm of joy, with the sounds and scents weaving together to create a symphony of celebration that cannot be found anywhere else on earth. When I arrived in Jalisco, the first thing my grandma did was take me to a dance show. The atmosphere was different in Mexico because I wasn’t surrounded by American customs. The air wasn’t tainted with the smell of hot dogs and hamburgers; instead, it smelled like spice and warmth. I stood on the sidewalk, devouring my paleta. Sticky, sugary liquid dripped down my arm as Hispanic women danced throughout the street. Their dresses soared through the air, radiating intensified colors of contentment, joy and celebration. The women’s dresses — long, flowing and adorned with ruffles — billowed out around them as they spun and twirled, releasing a gust of air that carried with it the unmistakable aroma of spicy Mexican cuisine and the feeling of utter freedom.

As I watched the women dance, I noticed something: their hair. It was like mine. I was suddenly reminded of the feeling of not fitting in throughout my elementary classes because I spent many nights looking in the mirror, wishing I had the perfect blonde locks. However, it was different here. My eyes couldn’t believe what they saw. Women danced in their thick crocheted dresses. They carried confidence, pride and power. They twirled the fabric in circles, like they wore the rainbow. And these women were like me. We both had brown eyes, dark hair and tan skin. Here, I actually fit in: not only visually, but verbally. We shared a common first language. A language I once feared to liberate because of the stares I might attract. A language that I couldn’t fluently vocalize. It was the power of these women that showed me the beauty of the Spanish language and my Mexican heritage. 

Traveling to Mexico was a dream come true for me. I spent the whole two weeks only speaking Spanish, and I didn’t care if it did not sound fluent. I could never roll my “r”s perfectly, but I realized that it was beside the point. Mexico opened my eyes to the beauty of my heritage. I shouldn’t be afraid because my roots are like the sturdy roots of a young sapling, breaking through the hard soil and reaching towards the sun, determined to grow strong and tall despite the obstacles in their path. They are like the pioneers who set out into the unknown, with nothing but their courage and their dreams to guide them, forging a route towards a new life in a foreign land. When I came back to the United States, I was empowered to accept my difference. For once, I felt more confident than ever. It didn’t matter if I stood out in the yearbook or spoke a different language because the differences made me unique. My individuality is like a brilliant splash of color on a blank canvas, transforming the mundane into something extraordinary.

So to the little kids I grew up with during snack time, I will proudly tell you how to say cat in Spanish.

This story can also be found on the Michigan Daily website