My racial and ethnic identity has been a point of contention for my entire life. While today I can confidently call myself a multiracial person who identifies as Mexican, white and Filipino, my life has long been dictated by the opinions of others. 

Some of my earliest memories are being told that I am not Mexican and that I am “just a white boy” because I did not grow up speaking Spanish. Being raised in the Arleta and Pacoima neighborhood of Los Angeles County’s San Fernando Valley meant that I was always around other Latines. My elementary school was majority Latine- or Hispanic-identifying, so anyone that was not purely Latine was treated as an outsider, myself included. This made me an easy target for bullying by so-called “real Latinos.”

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Though I did not grow up speaking Spanish, I was still immersed in the culture. I celebrated significant holidays like Nochebuena and Día de Los Reyes, indulged in tamales and pozole every Christmas, and took trips to visit my family in Mexico City. Yet, there was always that constant reminder that I was not a “real Latino” because I could not speak Spanish. 

It is time that we talk about the toxicity of excluding someone from their culture solely because they do not speak the language associated with that identity.

A recent study by Pew Research Center found that 57% of non-Spanish speaking Latines aged 18-49 had been shamed for their inability to speak the language well. While the study does well in acknowledging the numerical facts about non-Spanish speaking Latines, numbers do not measure the impact that shame can bring on an individual.

I remember growing up being so resentful of my Latino heritage because I could not understand the language. My dad would always play Spanish radio when he would take me to school or pick me up, and I hated it. I did not understand it, so I became resentful toward it because I had faced ridicule for so long.

As I got older, I started to feel like I could be more autonomous in my identity, but words still stung. In high school, I took it upon myself to start trying to learn Spanish. Even with my efforts, though, I still received frequent judgment from my friends, this time for my pronunciations or inability to carry a viable conversation. I still did not feel like I was a good enough Latino, no matter how hard I tried. It came to a point where I really started to take ownership of my identity and realized it was not my job to convince anyone I was Latino but myself.

A USA Today article on the topic states, “Native language ability tends to dissipate in the U.S. as first-generation immigrants give way to subsequent generations. The second generation tends to be bilingual; the third is mostly English-speaking, and so on.” 

My dad came to the United States at nine years old and faced discrimination throughout his schooling because he was dark-skinned and spoke Spanish. While I am second-generation, the trauma my dad faced as a child led him to Americanize me as much as he could, including with my birth name “Matthew,” even though my mom wanted to name me “Mateo.” With a last name like Jiménez, he did not want me to have to face the same discrimination he did.

Despite my dad’s best efforts, I still faced discrimination and exclusion in my own right for my Americanized persona. Though I now am confident in my identity as a Latino, it took a lot of reflecting and conversation with my family and friends to be who I am now. 

One of my closest friends is Latine, but grew up in a predominantly white suburb of Connecticut, so he has never felt a connection to his culture and does not speak Spanish. At dinner with my family recently, he expressed much of the same sentiment I faced growing up — he did not feel “Latino enough.” In response, my dad said something that has stuck with me since: “Are you Latino?”

 “Yes,” My friend said.

“Well, if you are Latino and feel that that is the identity that fits you, no one can tell you otherwise. Do not let anyone discount who you believe you are.”