I was inspired to write this after reading the thought-provoking piece Actually, I’m Not White, by Cynthia Schroeder.

The first time I remember questioning how other people perceived me, I was nine years old.

My mom took me to an after school event at the middle school she was teaching at that year. It was for Hispanic Heritage Month, and all the countries and principalities were represented: each had a table with papier-mache ornaments and decorations that still had a sickly glue smell, and fact sheets cut and pasted on those three-fold-we-balled-out-on-this-great-poster-board board, filled with bright colors that blur out now into one pool of fuchsia.

My kick ass, beautiful mother is still the number one person in my life who encourages my tenacious curiosity to learn about everything that piqued my interest. When I was nine (and the same is still said today), I had a deep fascination with learning about how other people live, what they care about, and what they liked to do. She also raised me to love myself, inside and out, and to not care about what anyone thought. She raised to be poised, well-mannered (hell hath no fury like a Puerto Rican mother who sees her child hasn’t greeted every single person in the room), and confident.

I was also raised to be fiercely proud of who I was, and being half Puerto Rican, half Brazilian was an ingrained part of my being.

I vaguely remember the event, the finer details are lost. I remember eating lots of food, most of it donated by local restaurants specializing in comida criolla from whatever country’s flag hung in the window: authentic food served in silver to-go tins, enough to feed four people for six dollars plus a can of soda and a piece of flan for their lunch special. You’ll find me in one of these places at least once a week.

Students performed on stage, doing various dances and skits. I distinctly remember that the drummers from Cuba kept me in this hypnotizing rhythm, zoning out as I stared at their hands moving in rapid, rhythmic succession. I sat in this blinded bliss until the next act came up. Then, two more followed. I looked around to find the performers from Puerto Rico, a group of girls who were much older (therefore, much cooler) than I was. I remember noticing that none of them looked like me, though I realized that I did have half of another country running through my veins and across my features.

I pulled my mom over, very shyly, and whispered: “I want to go home. No one here looks like me. They look like they belong here, and I don’t.”

What I didn’t know before that moment was that I will never be considered dark enough to “look” Hispanic or Latina, yet never white enough to “look” white. My skin threw me in a cultural limbo that I was just starting to experience. My hair — unruly, curly, and incredibly unmanageable was the only feature I had that defined me as “looking” enough like my roots.

What pains me further is that I realized a division in my own culture. Too many times have I heard other Puerto Ricans say how lucky I am that I’m so fair. People have called me la blanquita, and mean it as a term of praise and endearment. And sadly, too many times do I see that white Puerto Ricans get the most preferential treatment, while their brothers and sisters who have darker skin are discriminated against by their own people.

During that school event, and in the years that followed, I learned that I would always be welcomed with a tone of surprise once anyone found out my background:

“What are you?”

“But you don’t look Latina.”

“You’re so white though, I would have never thought you were Latina.”

“That’s so exotic.”

“Are you really? Wow, you?”

“Ooo, another one that’s too hot to handle.”

What I find to be an outward slap in the face is when people immediately assume that I’m not what I say I am and vehemently deny my words. I get outwardly offended, because passive frustration got old after the age of twelve.

Can you blame me for feeling this way? Imagine you painted a great masterpiece. Then, someone comes along and tells you that, because you aren’t covered in paint, you never painted it in the first place. You have to insist that it’s your work, and somehow prove it, but the person accusing you refuses to acknowledge that it’s your painting. Furthermore, they say you couldn’t have painted it, because you don’t seem to be the artsy type. In a way, that’s what it’s like when people accuse me of not being Latina.

What I couldn’t understand is how we took multiple countries, ethnicities, and cultures, and blended them behind one face. How did we take the richness and diversity of all of these cultures, and set them behind a single representation? Society has shoved us all in a box. Mexican, Guatemalan, Spanish, Puerto Rican, Brazilian, who cares? Apparently, we are all the same. We all have one shade of skin, all of us marginalized to look one way. When it comes to pop culture, we’re all either the maid, the slutty and loud best friend, or the exotic creature from a land beyond. The question I ask is, when did being Latina only share one face?

The only proof needed is when people ask me, in all seriousness, how hard it was for me to get here from Puerto Rico. Spoiler alert: we’re a commonwealth of the United States (therefore, no passport needed), and I was born in New Jersey (which is then followed by a gasp).

What pushes me against a hard place is that I will never know the struggle of Latinas and Hispanics with darker skin who face serious discrimination, yet I’m not considered “white enough” to be accepted by white communities. I feel guilty when I say I’m a person of color, because much like Genesis Chavez-Caro in this article, I feel that because of my light skin I do experience white privilege. Yet, here I am, someone who is not considered a person of color by society, and someone who can’t check off white on a survey, either.

I grew up in a single family household with my mom. I have no memory of my mother and father ever being in love — they separated when I was a toddler. He was present, but never supportive. At fourteen, he was out of my life for good. My mother raised me with every luxury she could afford, while I saw her not buy clothes or shoes for herself year after year. She single-handedly put me through private school, including a private college. No one saw her struggle to give me the best education and life possible, but I did.

Much like single mothers and mothers of all nationalities, nothing was more important than giving me the best life. I was able to go to the best schools, and do almost anything I had dreamed of growing up, but only because she worked tirelessly at three separate teaching jobs. What I recognize is that my fortunate upbringing and opportunities were because of massive sacrifices my mother made, and I know that there are many mothers out there, like mine, breaking their backs for their families while making much less.

Because of my mother and because of her struggle, I am proudly Latina. How could I ever deny not only who I am, but what I am? It scares me to see members of my family not teaching their children Spanish, when their fortune came from a similar, if not more extreme, struggle to get them where they stand. I cringe when I hear others who share my background deny that their families hail from these beautiful places. Furthermore, it upsets me when I see our cultural identities wiped out because we were fortunate enough to be raised in better circumstances.

No, I will never be the exotic prize for any man or woman, but I will be twice as vocal about who I am because I have to prove it. And yes, I am a lot to handle, but please, don’t call me spicy. No, we are not “all like that,” and screw you for assuming so. Yes, I am Latina.