Hands

Her tiny, delicate hands could do it all. The texture of an orange slice but the strength of a diamond.

They were the hands that stirred the olla de frijoles that made her family’s bellies dance with glee.

They were the hands that strummed the guitar which transported corridos from her childhood and adolescence into a new country for the next generation to hear.

They were the hands that carried two children to America, the hands with which she prayed for realized dreams for all her children and grandchildren.

They were the hands that knitted beautiful blankets, clothing, and doilies, all crafted perfectly for the person who would proudly display them.

And they were the hands that comforted me, guided me, and held me through all my proudest moments and in some of my darkest.

On that cold, early December morning when I had to let those hands go for the very last time, I didn’t want to lose all that she held inside them. Our hands were the same size, same color– a beautiful, brown sugar hue–but the power behind hers, even in her frail 94 year old body, couldn’t be compared.

I am proud mine mirror hers, even though mine have so much more life to live. And I recognize how much her hands sacrificed to ensure I grew up with a life she couldn’t even foresee.

But, there was a time where I tried to hide my hands, my color, and all the tradition, history, and culture that naturally exuded from them. Growing up in a predominantly white community, I was not around others who looked like me or understood the Mexican culture that lovingly wrapped its arms around me the minute I entered my house. I didn’t have teachers who resembled me nor did I read books or history that helped me learn more about stories similar to my family’s. Even though I loved to learn and joyfully participated in any way I could, my memories of school were less than idyllic.

In first grade, I brought beans and rice to school one day in an ugly, light brown Thermos, and my crush, a boy named Billy, laughed at me. As my tiny, little 6 year old hands reached in the vessel for the last bite, I knew that’d be the last time I’d bring that slice of home to lunch.

In second grade, a classmate’s mom, a Spanish teacher at our neighboring high school, came in to teach us Spanish. I eagerly woke up that morning, a smile on my face because I knew this would be my moment to share a bit of myself that others didn’t know. When I entered the classroom, our “Spanish” names were on the board; mine was changed to Inez. I stared at it curiously because my name in Spanish to my family, and particularly to my grandma, was “Jaqualina”. I asked to change it but was told to sit back down. When the class was asked what something meant in Spanish, I answered using the beautiful Mexican Spanish I knew. After being told I was incorrect (it was “automovil” not “carro”), I sheepishly sat on my hands, knowing how badly I wanted to keep participating but immensely embarrassed and confused for getting it “wrong”. This would mirror my life in Spanish classes moving forward, a forever barrier to practicing the language that warmed my soul.

There was a time in high school where I had to share my silent reading book with our teacher, an older, white man with a ruddy face and potbelly middle. My smart, ambitious cousin, to whom I looked up, had lent me How To Be a Chicana Role Model by Michele Serros. And when my hands placed that book on his desk, the cover displaying an author who looked like me, he chuckled and asked “Do you think this is an appropriate book?”. I shuffled back to my seat and amongst the smattering of giggles of those around me, I quietly put it in my backpack and never took it out again.

Somewhere between those moments, I stifled my pride in the heritage I embraced wholeheartedly with those I loved. I feared being “othered”, and instead, I tried to blend in with the porcelain-skinned girls around me.

In that, though, I also knew I was hiding my gram. All those moments her fingers ran through my hair to soothe me when I was sad or her hands clenched around a spoon magically stirring the Cream of Wheat to make it less hot — gone. Pushed aside for my own selfishness.

When I’d get the inevitable question, “What are you?” from a classmate, there was a period of time where I would say I was German and Lithuanian, an acknowledgement of my mom’s side but an erasure of dad’s. My brownness from head to toe told a different story, but I was never pushed to elaborate.

In fact, I held onto so much shame throughout most of my schooling that I think I even surprised myself when I held steadfastly to my childhood dream of becoming a teacher. But, I knew no matter what, I’d make certain my students’ experiences would not mimic my own.

After graduating college with my English teaching certification, I walked into my bright, airy untouched classroom. I placed a picture of my grandma and me, her hands wrapped around my chubby baby belly, both of us laughing, on my desk and waited for the kids to walk in. I wanted each student to share facts about themselves, and I told them I would do the same. I celebrated each story enthusiastically told; this was the very antithesis of my own experiences.

And when I shared with them that my favorite food was tamales, their eyes widened. One student shouted, “Wait…you’re Mexican?!”.

I briefly froze, remembering all the pain and hurt that typically accompanied this question. But, instead, I smiled and responded in a way that was both unnecessarily explanatory and excited, “Yep! Well…half…”.

These sweet 14 year olds, brand new to the world of high school, varying shades of Brown and Black themselves, exclaimed happily, “We’ve never had a teacher who was Mexican before!”. And in the middle of the excitement around what tamale filling was the best (obviously pork) and what exactly was the proper masa technique, the weight of shame, hurt, and discomfort I held with clenched fists went away. This was the celebration I had waited for my whole life; and while it didn’t erase all my past experiences, it proved to me that my identity MATTERED and was VALUED.

When I reminisce about moments in the classroom–the acknowledgement of cultures, of languages, and of emerging identities–I look to the hands that hugged in times of joy, that wrote words of encouragement in times of frustration, or that wiped away tears during times 14 year olds should never know. The support that my gram held in hers found their way to mine in the way I interacted with my students. Those fragile but mighty hands of hers may be different than my own, but each pair has loved, supported, and guided a new generation. And with that realization, I proudly use these hands to write our story — intertwined, humbly — forever.

This blog post is part of the #31DaysIBPOC Blog Series, a month-long movement to feature the voices of indigenous and teachers of color as writers and scholars. Please CLICK HERE to read yesterday’s blog post by Traci Tousant (and be sure to check out the link at the end of each post to catch up on the rest of the blog series).