Being Latina is an experience different to everyone. To me, while it’s inevitable, it’s also a choice. Allow me to share my personal experience and what it means to me.

Before anything, let me state that Latino is not a race. It is a culture. Furthermore, being Latino in the United States of America is a completely different experience than being Latino anywhere else. There is no such thing as the Latino race. Those that erroneously scream: “viva la raza” are perpetuating the ignorant notion that a Latino race exists (and I hate it). We come in all different colors and races. To understand this, you simply need to revisit middle school history class: Indigenous people inhabited the Americas and Caribbean; Caucasian conquistadors sailed over in the late 1400’s and took over shit; Blacks from Africa were brought over to work as slaves. In the 16th century, Asians slaves were brought to Mexico & South America by the Spanish & Portuguese. In the 19th century, the Lebanese started arriving in South America (Shakira, anyone?). In the early 1900’s, approximately 1 million Italians immigrated to Argentina. I can go on, but I’ll assume you get the point.

Now, on to me…aesthetically, I’m your stereotypical Latina in the United States: dark hair and eyes, curvy, and tan (albeit via artificial means but whatever). My mom is a beautiful, feisty Puerto Rican bombshell of Caucasian Spanish decent. My father is a quiet intellectual, born in Ecuador of Spanish, Quechua, and Chinese ancestry (thanks, great great-grandma Lola Chang for the eyes, I love them but I can’t do a winged cat eye to save my life BUT at least the ladies in the nail shop look at me twice before talking shit about me) . I’m proud of my features, I find it fascinating that I’m mistaken for Moroccan in Morocco, Filipina in Singapore, and that my fellow Latinos can’t ever pinpoint exactly what “tribe” I’m from.

My immigrant parents made sure Spanish was my first language, and for this I’m thankful. My childhood consisted of my mom blasting sappy ballads by Angela Carrasco, Camilo Sesto, El Puma, amongst others. Novelas, Walter Mercado and Menudo were part of my every day. Who the hell needs Mr. Rogers when you have Cepillin and El Chavo Del Ocho? Madonna was cool and all but who I really wanted to be like was Iris Chacon! I mean, here was a lady that had big thighs just like me and she was on television in cute, glittery sequined outfits shaking her thunder thighs and massive ass for the whole world to see. The Boogy Man? That fool doesn’t have shit on El Cuco. Vicks Vapor Rub, also known as “El Vaporu” was, is, and will be the cure for all aliments (I keep a jar on my desk at work for those occasional headaches). My Saturday mornings were filled with the aromas of Mistolin and Suavitel as the sounds of El Gran Combo muffled out the noise of the vacuum cleaner. Kids didn’t speak when adults were speaking, if you did, you risked getting a “chancleta” to the face. Holidays=family parties! Family parties= lots of food and dancing in the host relative’s living room to salsa, merengue, and cumbia. I remember my uncles found this entertaining. They’d say, “hey, why don’t you dance with cousin so and so and I’ll give you a dollar”. Shit, I came out strong from those parties!

Visiting either grandmother on a Saturday night meant watching Don Francisco. Ugh. As a teenager, I knew my Saturday night went to shit when I was watching him. Yet, there I was, singing along to the stupid commercial jingles and waiting ‘til the end to see who wins the damn car. On most Saturday afternoons, my dad would drive us down to Queens to buy his Ecuadorian newspapers and magazines. I loved those days, it was so cool to be surrounded by all these people that spoke the same language and looked like me. We had a routine, we’d stop and get the newspapers first and then we’d go to the record stores to listen to whatever new music was out. On one of those visits, I met Celia Cruz. She hugged and kissed me and I freaked out and cried. Loser.

As a teenager, I was a little bit more conflicted with my Latina-ness. I didn’t have many Latino friends since I spent that part of my life in a generally white neighborhood. My best friend was and is a first generation Greek girl who thankfully, understood the importance of culture and family. We bonded over our woes of immigrant parents and comparing welts from the belt whippings we got. I can’t say I was ever ashamed of my culture, but I certainly didn’t embrace it as fully as I do now. It was always something that stayed in the house. Don’t get me wrong, I knew every single word to every single Marc Anthony and Jerry Rivera song, but being Latina wasn’t that defined to me. In my early 20’s, being Latina became a choice. While some inadvertently lose themselves, for lack of better word, in mainstream American culture, I made it my business to submerge myself deeper. I expanded my knowledge of the language and traditions – both new and old. I got some Latino friends & a couple boyfriends. I went to parades and festivals. I learned the importance of our culture through food (ask me about my rice and beans and flan). I listened to stories from older folks about our ancestral lands. I read love poems by Neruda and books by Garcia Marquez, Coehlo, and my favorite, Esmeralda Santiago. I read about El Che and Simon Bolivar. I listened a little more closely to Lavoe; I felt the pain of Jaramillo. I started frequenting the Nuyorican Poets Café so I could listen to others share their experiences of growing up Latino. I gave myself free reign to feel it, love it, own it.

Today, being Latina is who I am. Being Latina means I’m an affectionate, passionate, nurturing woman. My family comes first, always, for they are my foundation. It means there’s no better way to show you my love than to cook you something delicious. It means pride. I’m proud of the strong men and women before and after me, those that left their homelands with nothing but a dream. I’m proud of the Latinos that never compromise their cultural identity, beliefs, and values in order to find success. I’m proud of my body and my face for it is a beautiful polychromatic composition of strong warriors from different lands that came together to make me. I take pride in my first language because without it, I wouldn’t be able to express myself wholeheartedly. Without Spanish, I wouldn’t be able swoon over the delicious lyrics of Romeo Santos and Marc Anthony. Without Spanish, I can’t tell the man I love exactly how I feel or how mad he gets me. I am so much more than the media’s tired representation of Latinas (I refuse to watch Modern Family, though I love Sofia Vergara). And yet, many still ask: are you an oversexed, tacky, scantily clad cook/housekeeper with a loud mouth framed by big pooty, red lips? Only if you’re lucky, coño…