I am a United States citizen. I am an American.
My heritage, however, is of Cuban and Puerto Rican descent. But that is not what the general public sees. The general public sees a check mark in the box labeled Latino on a registration form at the Department of Motor Vehicles. The general public sees a potential thief in any major department store. The general public sees a spic. To all of the readers who are lucky enough to not have been attacked by this vulgar language, I congratulate you. But a spic is a derogatory term for any person with a Hispanic background. I am not faint-hearted. I am fairly talented in the art of defending myself. Yet, when a middle-aged Caucasian stranger had the audacity to call me a spic in public, I couldn't help but feel absolutely worthless.
It's ironic, right? How the English language can cause such happiness, yet be the ultimate vehicle for destruction? That one word implied so many understandings. It made me reminiscent of the immigrants that my father grew up with in his neighborhood—the ones that couldn't speak a word of English and could never find a job because of their language barrier, and the immigrants who were seen as "useless" in the eyes of society. As a child I questioned my father about how it must feel to be an outsider in a new land like his friends from the barrio. Now, here I am, nine years later, feeling the exact same emotions that those men were experiencing.
I am fluent in Spanish. I have been interacting with native speakers since birth. My skin is a darker shade of tan than that of the man who snickered spic when I refused to walk a little faster during a stroll through the mall with my grandmother. However, my heart has only known nationalism for one country: America. My grandparents on my mother's side fought their way through the racial barriers of New York City in the 1960's to ensure that their posterity was well-equipped to flourish. My father voyaged on a boat with just his brother and his uncle in order to escape Cuba and find happiness in the land of opportunity. My identity belongs to those family members who tactfully preserved my right to be an American. Though the word spic hurt in the moment and continues to ring in my ear when I see someone give me a second glance in a clothing store, I know that I belong in this country and that my right to be here is a feat that my family has already tirelessly fought towards achieving.
So, to all my racially-diverse brethren, just know that you are not alone. The story continues with us and none of us should allow that tale to go untold. Speak loudly, because our families did not struggle up to this point for our voices to remain hushed.
