Although I don't remember much about the weeks leading up to the move, I recall the excitement I felt every time my mother and father shared their memories about a country, until then, a plane ride away.
Unlike most children in my situation, I was excited to move...until I walked on my new campus.
Instead of a sprawling schoolyard and student-painted murals, the school was a large four-story fortress with minimal light looking into our classrooms. Each classroom had a make-shift stage with a nun, instead of a teacher, sitting behind a desk.
We would speak when spoken to, stand when asked to, we were raised perfect in every way. Our shoes were one of four choices, our socks the most expensive cotton available, and our three uniforms tailor-made. We had eight classes - daily - ranging from culture, to art history, to world history and "manualidades" (arts and crafts). We were promised an education that could easily gaurantee a ticket to one of the top universities in the world.
All my classmates were petite, mostly fair or blond, and related to a mayor, celebrity or well-known business family in the city. I later came to find out that my family was not different from those families.
When my uncle came to visit, we would also be asked to wear our "gala uniforms." He was, I later found out, the head of the school-board of one of the largest cities in that country. I had to stand in line to greet him while nervously looking at his shoes, instead of running to his arms as I did with most family members.
The nuns called my mother "Doña," when she walked the hallways of that school. She was recognized and respected. My siblings and I were held to a much higher standard because of who my family was.
In the vastness of my former country, I was one of many and one of only four Latino kids in our elementary school. I didn't know "I" was different, and my parents didn't tell me otherwise. I never felt the disparity of being different, as some Latinos share. I was, we were, the same as my classmates, our neighbors, and my family.
On the other hand, our new life was confusing to me.
My mother and father, you see, never told me who my family was. My new home, my new life, was holding me, us, to a different standard.
We had to be perfect in every way.
With perfection, came the ugly repercutions of those that didn't understand, or those that sneered when the nuns would remind us -constantly and publicly- that "no eramos del montón." (we were not average)
My classmates vacationed in Europe or flew to Boston for clam chowder - over long weekends. They shopped in Houston or Dallas, and twisted their nose when I told them that I grew up in the San Fernando Valley.
I learned, within the first year of being in my new home, that my life, albeit privileged, had many ugly people in it. As my mother and father told me, "I would come across people that would envy my life." So always act with "cordura;" (level headed) and to never forget "de donde vienes" (where we came from).
In order to survive and come out ahead, I had to adapt and stay two steps ahead of everyone. I also had to accept and embrace that my family was different - in a good way.
"I couldn't, I shouldn't, be ashamed that my family worked hard to attain a level of professional and financial security that many envy." - I told myself.In those five years living abroad, I traveled to places most people only dream about. Embraced new foods, literature and interacting with people from all over the world.
But when we came back home, it was back to being one of many. I had to lessen the importance of my family, their hard work and accomplishments - to fit in.
Arriving in the middle of a immigration amnesty, many Latinos that were living in hiding began to celebrate their culture. A culture that was much, much different than a culture they claimed existed in Mexico.
As anywhere else, I am sure that many Latinos suffered a lack of financial stability, limited education and a life befitting of a drama...but as much as I empathised with my school mates and work colleagues, I couldn't relate to the news stories blasted all over TV.
How did I respond to the change? By speaking less and less about my family, avoiding any and all conversations about Mexico or the Latino culture I was part of - anything that would bring attention that my life, and my family, was different. Or, ahem, different than what everyone - Latino and otherwise - was potraying/i> as such.
But it's tiring - very much so - to pretend to agree to the never ending jabs of what a Latino, rather, a Mexican American reality is like. I can no longer be ashamed that yes, my parents and family, worked very hard for themselves and were able to give me the life that I had.
I can longer pretend that all Latinos are the same, or that anything remotely stereotypical, is relatable. I can no longer accept to be less of a Latina because I didn't have the hard life other Latinos experienced.
Yes, it's taken time. But I hope more of us join in my new found freedom of saying:
Not all Latinos are the same...!
