On the outskirts of Mexico City lies a small city called Naucalpan de Juarez. With its narrow streets and houses constructed over tall valleys, it houses the famous Torres de Satélite sculpture.
On a nice August day 20 years ago, a young woman gave birth to a baby girl: me. I was born into a family of four- now five. With thin black hair, chocolatey eyes, and the skin color of my land, tenía el nopal en la frente. I was Mexican- Itzel Citlalli Matamoros Santos.
At two and three years old, I was learning to speak terms more complex than mama y papa. As I was taught, chescos are sodas, no manches means unbelievable, and guey is the same as bro. If you spoke in standard Spaniard Spanish, you were stuck up, you were weird, you were wrong. Soccer was the only sport you played, your shoes and humble clothes always had tears and holes, and eating big portions of tortillas, pollo, y frijoles was the norm. Families consisted of a hundred uncles, two hundred cousins, and a long list of family members that you will never meet (but that’s okay). The outside of las casas de mis abuelos in the mountains of Puebla and Veracruz smelled like lovely green trees, and the outside of my house in Mexico City presented the sight of a busy city life; yet, the sun was always bright and warm as it touched the pores of my skin. I was Mexican- Itzel Matamoros.
When I was six years old, my parents brought my brother, my sister, my cousin (who is basically my twin brother), and me to the United States in search of the American Dream. As we moved through the States and up in Milwaukee, I heard words foreign to me – a tongue I did not speak, a language unknown to my ears. As we left O-Hare Airport and drove to Milwaukee, I looked up at the sky and noticed it dropped weird white dots. The dots accumulated on the ground, the weather was cold, and the environment was different. I did not know what to feel but cold, since I only wore my thin red dress and unas chanclas viejas. As we adjusted to a new life in Milwaukee, I was enrolled in a school with kids different from me. It was a place where chescos was not a word and my clothes and personal appearance always had to be impeccable. Not everyone had the same brown skin and chocolatey eyes that I was used to. Some people were darker than me and many were way lighter. My name became something no one could pronounce and my accent was looked down on. I had no identity- Ixel Mattamorus.
At nine years old, society taught me to lose my pride of my homeland. I worked hard to perfect my English and lose my (stereotypical) Mexican accent. I was the smart, yet shy kid in class. I tried to make my parents proud of my grades as I simultaneously tried to hide from my classmates. At the beginning of the school year, I would bring my big torta for snack time. As everyone ate their small bag of chocolate chip cookies or their granola bars, I happily ate la torta que mi hermano me preparo at six in the morning. The other kids laughed; it turns out, I was still the outcast. As the year went on, I would “forget” my torta at home and drink water or jugo during snack time. I realized large portions of food is not a big thing in America. I adjusted. I learned “the American ways." I was Mexican-American- Itzel M.
I was 13 years old, basically 14, and had just started my first year of high school. Being one of the few minorities in a predominantly Caucasian all-girls institution, many of my peers embraced my individuality – the unique beauty of my culture and my people. While a few girls asked ignorant questions like “do you even listen to music?”, many others said “wow, it’s so cool that you can speak two languages! I wish I could do that!” and “no way, I love Mexican food!” My interest in taking up Azteca was “like such a cool thing” to my new friends and suddenly everyone wanted to try the snacks I brought to school. My black friend yelled at me when I didn’t share my concha with her, my white friend was upset when I told her I didn’t save her some flan, and my theology teacher told my classmates how awesome I was for bringing her un Bocadín. After so long, I was finally able to breathe – it’s okay to have pride in my home country. I was Mexican- Itzel Matamoros.
By senior year, at 17 years old, I had adjusted to the customs of my very American friends and classmates. Suddenly, I looked at the texts I had on my new iPhone 6, I walked into class with my Starbucks Frapuccino, and wore sandals to school. Like, uhm, and ahh became the most common terms in my vocabulary and I worried about what to wear for the next school dance. When I went out to eat with my friends, we would buy our food at the nearby Panera, Culver’s, and Chick-Fil-A. We listened to the latest pop music and wore tape and ribbons on our (rolled instead of hemmed) plaid school skirts. I became the “typical white girl” and was tired of telling people how to pronounce my name. I was American- Izzy Matamoros.
At 20 years old, I realize I can be both: I can love mi país natal and I can enjoy the beauty of America. I listen to Spanish music and eat fresas con crema, but I also go to concerts at The Rave and have my weekly dosage of Starbucks. I am bilingual and speak Spanglish without noticing it. Tengo el nopal en la frente, but I wear sandals to school and have an iPhone. Soy Mexicana, Itzel Matamoros, but I also go by Izzy, my Americanized identity.
