How Growing Up in a Mostly-White School System Affected My Identity
I am a Latina woman. Since I was five, I’ve attended a school where less than 5% of the population identifies as Latinx/Hispanic. When I was younger, I didn’t know I was a minority. My skin has always been fair compared to my family members, I was born in America, and I don’t speak Spanish. When I walk down the street, people probably see someone white. Don’t get me wrong; in the grand scheme of things, white-passing is a blessing. I am privileged in that aspect. However, my somewhat racially ambiguous appearance took a toll on my childhood that I never even knew about until years later. Yes, my skin is fair, but I’ve never exactly been a size two. I developed hips pretty early and I’m known for my big, curly, dark hair. With the thick hair on my head came very thick eyebrows too. Now, I am 16 and I love my hair and my eyebrows. I am learning to accept my body for what it is. But this story is about the insecure young girl I was and sometimes still am.
I’ve always been too Hispanic for the white kids and too much of a gringa for my Cuban and Puerto Rican family. My relatives will ask me how my Spanish is and it’s hard for me to remind them that I take French. They are surprised and don’t believe me when I tell them I want to go to an Ivy League school and work in the art industry—they think I’m dreaming. In my school’s community, Ivy Leagues are the norm. My dream school is the safety school of some of my peers. I am constantly stuck between two worlds and I don’t belong in either. When asked to fill out “race” on a survey, I am uncomfortable. I don’t want to choose white because that’s not how I identify, though according to my family we are “white Hispanics.” That’s an oxymoron that I will never understand. Something as simple as checking a box makes me question my entire existence. I am led to believe that I’ve completely made up my sense of oppression in my head—that I am not even a minority or I’m not even really Latina.
But I always return to school and remember that here, I am out of place. Here, people read my last name on an email or on a roster and I can already tell that they won’t take me seriously. Even people I’ve known since childhood assume I’m lazy and that I only attend this school to fulfill a diversity quota. However, at home, if I try to express my plights with my family, I am shut down and told that I am too privileged to complain. And the thing is, I know exactly how privileged I am. I know that if I attended public school, I wouldn’t even be writing this article.
Last week, a small group of students did an Identity Walk, which is when you are read prompts and take steps forward or backward depending on how they relate to your identity. At the end of the exercise, the most privileged of the group will be at the front of the room, and the least privileged at the back. I was the only person in my row who was all the way at the end of the room, only the wall behind me. I was honestly surprised. I even felt a little guilty and I still don’t know why. Privilege is so much more than what you can see about a person or who their parents are. Often times your environment can really make or break you.
