An Identity Crisis

Written by Rachelle Hernandez. Graphic by Abra Manfred.

I was once called an “off-brand Latina.” I didn’t know there was a quality-control department for Latinas, but apparently there is, and I failed inspection. I don’t dance particularly well, I’m not very loud, and despite growing up in Latin America, I’d probably have a nervous breakdown if someone asked me to write an essay in Spanish. I’m a writing major, by the way. The funny thing is  I didn’t argue when they called me that. I actually wondered if there was some truth to it.

Sometimes we put on masks because we want to belong. Other times, people put them on us without asking. And sometimes, if we wear them long enough, we begin to believe they’re ours.

I grew up in El Salvador, attending a private American school surrounded by children whose families had more money than I could  imagine. Then I’d come home to my mother, who grew up in severe poverty and started working at six years old, selling tomatoes at the market. Somehow, I existed between those two worlds without ever feeling like I quite belonged to either.

Back home, I was privileged. Too white, too Americanized, too much of something I couldn’t quite identify. Here, I’m not American enough. I’m an average middle-class college student who occasionally struggles to understand the social expectations of a country whose language I’ve spoken my entire life.

To me, however, I’m simply the daughter of a hardworking single mother who gave everything she had so I could have everything she didn’t. I guess that’s the only part that has never confused me. The rest? Well, that’s a different story.

Growing up in a predominantly Catholic country, I learned that there were things about me that were supposedly wrong before I was even old enough to understand them. My parents were never married, which apparently made my existence a little controversial. Because God forbid a child be born out of wedlock in the twenty-first century.

Then I moved to the United States, and nobody cared. Nobody cared that my parents weren’t married. Nobody cared that my mother raised me on her own. Nobody cared about half the things I’d spent my childhood believing I should be ashamed of. And for the first time, I began to wonder how many of my insecurities were actually mine.

Back home, I could hardly wear a bathing suit without worrying about who might see me. The world is small there and everybody knows everybody.

Here, the world is enormous. And I like that the world is big. I like that I can walk outside without wondering who knows my mother, who knows my family, or who might have something to say about what I’m wearing. I like that I can write about things that make people uncomfortable. I like being able to become someone new without everyone insisting they already know who I am.

But coming to SCAD hasn’t meant abandoning every mask. Sometimes I still wonder whether I need to become a different version of myself to make friends. Whether I should be louder, more outgoing, more interesting. Whether the shy girl who loves books and occasionally gets angry at absolutely everything is enough.

And then there are the other expectations. I’m a Christian, but I don’t agree with everything other Christians believe. And therefore, I’m not Christian enough. I dream of becoming a successful author, working in publishing, and having a career that challenges me. I also dream of being a wife and mother. Apparently, depending on whom you ask, I’m either too traditional or not traditional enough.

I’m too conservative for some people and too liberal for others. Too Latina here, not Latina enough there. Too privileged in one country, perfectly ordinary in another. It’s exhausting trying to be the correct version of yourself for everybody. And perhaps the strangest part is that not every mask is something someone else forced me to wear.

Sometimes I wear one because I don’t want the people I love to worry about me. I smile when I’m sad. I pretend I’ve figured things out when I haven’t. I become the person who has everything under control because admitting otherwise feels considerably more frightening.

I do wonder how many of us do that. How many people walk around campus carrying entire worlds behind expressions that suggest everything is perfectly fine.

Writing at SCAD has allowed me to examine some of my masks, including the ones I didn’t realize I was wearing. I’ve learned that some were given to me, some I made myself, and some I might actually want to keep. I don’t think I’ve figured out who I am yet. I’m not entirely convinced anyone ever does.

But I keep thinking about that “off-brand Latina” comment. About how easily I accepted someone else’s definition of something I’ve been my entire life. And I wonder how many other things I’ve spent my life trying to prove to people who were never entitled to an explanation in the first place.