I am the product of American addiction and Salvadorian brutality, the child of prosperity and pain. Being a mixed race woman has tested my strength in many ways. For years it was difficult to accept myself as both white and Hispanic. Somehow it seemed that the two did not belong together.
It all began with a box, a middle school's need to classify its students. On the form it stated that if you were white you were not of Hispanic decent. However, I could not grasp this idea, for if my father is white and my mother Salvadorian, that would mean that I am both white and hispanic. The form prohibited me from identifying as who I truly am.
To this very day, that box exists. It is a concept that lingers in our modern perception of race and ethnicity. I am reminded of its existence each and every time the question is asked. With a last name like Weisbaum and my inability to roll my R's, people often neglect to see that I am in fact half Salvadorian.
I am not upset that they cannot identify me based on my physical characteristics. Rather, what pains me most is the fact that my whiteness is complimented and my Hispanic heritage is thrown under the rug. Upon mention of me being half Hispanic, I often hear things such as, "You don't even look Hispanic!" Or, "Wow, I was sure you were a White girl." It is the tone in which they say it in that shows me how they truly feel about Hispanic individuals. There is a sort of pity, as if they are apologizing to me for my being Salvadorian.
Why is it that I cannot be both a white girl and a Latina? It is as though my being Hispanic cancels out my Whiteness. It is viewed as a stain that sullies the pureness of being White. Many people seem unable to comprehend that I proudly wish to identify as both ethnicities. Both have greatly impacted the person I have become, and I believe it is crucial that we love all of who we are.
Not everyone has given me a strange look when I tell them my ethnicity, but the judgment has occurred far too much for me to neglect it. For many years I interpreted the rude comments as a way to determine both my worth and beauty. In my early teenage years, I loathed my complexion. I wanted pale skin, crystal eyes, and lighter hair. I wanted to erase half of who I am.
It was detrimental to my development for I was incapable of seeing myself for all that I am. Instead, I looked only at what I was missing. As I got older, I learned what my dark features represent. My deep brown eyes are a reminder of the dark times my mother was forced to endure. They are the darkness that engulfed my mother as she crossed the border to escape the Salvadorian Civil War. My reddish brown hair tells the story of her bloody and overworked palms. She was forced to stay at home and take care of younger siblings, unable to receive a proper education and a slave to her parents.
When I look in the mirror, I see my father's stories and my mother's struggles. I see the combination of two incredible people. We must never lose sight of who we are and where we came from. I implore you to learn the history of your people to gain a better understanding of where you come from. Be proud of the cultures you represent, and never let anyone try to take that away from you.
