You would never know it by looking at me, but I am a quarter Hispanic. My grandfather’s a proud Mexican and, based on my limited understanding of fractions, he passed half of that to my mother and aunt. The leftovers went to me.
My middle name is Aurora, inherited from my great grandmother. Grandma Gogo, as my family knew her, was almost always hunched over her kitchen counter, rolling tortillas with her bare hands. She made them from scratch. Despite the labor of love it was, she burned them every time. My mom remembers her chihuahua, Tonya, who had a scar atop her head from a spill of hot oil.
My mom claims as soon as she knew she was having a girl, no matter what my first name was, my middle name would be Aurora.
I don’t mirror this side of my family at all. My mother and her sister inherited my grandfather’s darker skin and brown hair. Their identical features infuriated me when I was younger. I felt like a stranger next to my own family.
It still upsets me when I think about it hard enough. I ended up with pale skin, dry and eczema-riddled like my grandmother. I also got her blond hair and blue eyes. And, while I don’t mind taking after her, I always wished I’d been able to have both. I diametrically oppose every feature of my mother and — more importantly — my grandfather, whom I’ve loved more than anyone for as long as I can remember.
The way my mother spoke of her grandmother made me envy that I would never bear a resemblance to her, let alone meet her. I find solace in the fact my mom says they shared the same cool, soft skin that I’ve loved my entire life. In a way, it makes me feel like I’ve met her.
Once I gave up the pipe dream that I’d be able to someday resemble what I thought I was supposed to be, I tried to reject what I now wish I could understand. I’d scoff when my grandfather taught me words in Spanish, asking me to repeat it back to him. I used to roll my eyes when he preached that family was the most important thing.
It embarrasses me that I’ve taken a little over four years of Spanish between high school and college and have nothing to show for it. It embarrasses me when people see my grandfather and gasp, unable to believe we are related. Most of all, I’m embarrassed to admit it took me about 13 years to enjoy Mexican food, despite eating at my grandfather’s friend’s restaurant every week. There are few things I wouldn’t do to get back all of the “taco Tuesdays” I missed.
I have never felt Hispanic, not once. I feel like a poser when I mention my roots and have had many identity crises over my obligation to check or not check Hispanic on legal documents.
There are small things I do that make me feel like those who have come before me. I warm tortillas over the stove and flip them with my hand, just like my mom taught me. I too, like my great grandmother, often burn them. I like my food spicy and, for much of my life, also had a chihuahua.
Aurora died nine years before I was born and everyday I grow more guilty that I will never be able to carry her with me like I should’ve tried to when I was younger. I grow more ashamed that I used to compare my middle name to Sleeping Beauty rather than her, even though I have always loved to sleep.
I have always been a little disappointed that my first name wasn’t Aurora, and I will always be upset that I didn’t get my mothers maiden name of Garza. I will, however, always be referred to as “mija” by my grandfather, and that’s enough for me.
