I am a Latina, but you probably wouldn’t know that if you saw me.
My pale skin, my natural American accent, but more importantly, my difficulty with speaking Spanish on any level is just the iceberg to how much of a Gringa I am. I know nothing about any telenovelas, and I don’t even know any history about the countries where my families came from, save for where they are on a map.
But if you only took a look at my background, you would know that I just barely made it to being an American if it weren’t for my parents and their immigration to the United States only a few decades ago. In the end, though, my entire heritage is something I feel disconnected with.
My mother emigrated from Honduras to the United States in her twenties. My father, who was born in Chile, was raised in the United States after emigrating to the U.S. as a child. Meanwhile, my mother’s accent is so thick that people comment on it.
“Where are you from originally?” They ask.
And if you ask her about what it was like growing up, she’ll tell you about the food, the history and the diversity.
If you ask me, all you’d receive would be white, middle-class suburbs and McDonald’s.
While both of my parents grew up with the language, the traditions and the culture, I did not. Despite being Hispanic, my caucasian appearance fits how I am: washed out, bland and culture-less.
On my father’s side, I also have Polish roots, which I’ve never been very connected to, either. It doesn’t even feel real.
My last name, Goldchain, actually derives from the word “Goldszajn” — which sounds like, “Goldshine” — but when my father's family immigrated from Poland to South America, the pronunciation changed to “Goldchain”, as the “sh” sound is not prevalent in the Spanish language.
From Poland, my predecessors immigrated to various parts of the world, including South America, the United States, Canada and some parts of Europe. This all occurred before World War II, however, some of my ancestors remained in Poland and perished in the Holocaust.
I don’t feel the waves of its impact, not clearly. Moving away from the country and the language, any methods of connection are largely lost as the ancestors die out. I have never met anyone from that side of the family, if any of them even still exist.
There are still groups of people all around the world in my family tree who I have never met and never known, and maybe never will.
Last year, I spent a month in Honduras meeting family I had never met before. Speaking to them, there was this constant disconnect of how much I could speak, couldn’t speak and then their expectations of my comprehension skills. It was difficult for them to be able to look at me and know if I could understand them, because sometimes there would be this delay of what they would say and when I would understand each word that passed. Sometimes, I would understand, and even though I knew the words to speak to them, it would take too long to find each one, conjugate it into the right verb tense and so on, so I would just switch to English. Sometimes, I had no idea and would just nod my head if I were really desperate to not reveal my monolingualism.
At the dinner table, with everyone speaking with thick accents, their skin tan, their culture vibrant, I just sat there trying to catch up to every word, trying to understand, but I couldn’t really — I was a tourist.
A few years ago, when I was jumping from one campus organization to another, trying to find something to catch my interest and my time, I walked into a few interest meetings for the Hispanic Heritage Club.
In one of the few meetings I attended, there was a game being played where you place a name of a celebrity on a card and place it on your forehead. Unable to see who it is, you have to ask people questions to figure it out who it is. In this game, each of the celebrities was Hispanic. But I had no idea who these people were. I kind of quit — which is stupid, I know.
I just didn’t feel Hispanic enough. To be honest, nothing much has changed. It’s mostly been me avoiding any progress. There are plans for me to see my family in Honduras again in December. Maybe I’ll be bilingual then.
That’s what I said last time. What does it mean to be a Latina? What does it mean to have a past heritage that can’t be accessed, not really?
A Gringa. A Latina. In the end, am I whatever my skin and my language say I am?
*** This editorial is an opinion stated by the writer and does not represent the views of The Rotunda or Longwood University.
