My father immigrated to the US alone at 15 years old, where he learned English. He boasts often that he does not have the “Mexican” accent anymore, and loves to make fun of those who do. He always expressed to me what an embarrassment it was for children of Mexican parents not to speak Spanish. He taught me to read, write, and speak Spanish first.

I attended schools with dual immersion programs in a sunny beach town in San Diego, California. 

Half of my education was in English and the other in Spanish.  I came into school with knowledge of two languages, however, my teachers told every other white kid “Great job” for saying the months and days of the week correctly in Spanish. But when I wrote February as Februray, or Wednesday as Wensday, I was looked at with furrowed brows and sent away. 

I was reclassified earlier than the rest of my peers and was praised for it. The English language learner label was no longer what defined me- instead, the hopes to catch up with my peers and maybe exceed them did. This mindset manifested itself into the sense of elitism I had growing up - the same attitude my father had. The assimilation to the white culture around me went beyond how I spoke, and it is heartbreaking how this is a pattern in Latino youth. I lightened my hair for 6 years and began to believe in colorist ideologies. I was losing my mother tongue, and could not stand seeing the colored girl in the mirror. 

In an attempt to remedy my astray connection to my Mexican culture, Spanglish became my primary language, but both parties frowned upon this because there was no such thing. 

I was told it made me look uneducated and that slang was for “lower class” people. I felt as if I was being split down the middle- unsure of who I was. Even hearing my own name confused me, and angered me. 

“No my name is not Natalia it is Natalie!” and my teacher would reply “That is how your name is said in Spanish.” Did I have to have a more Spanish-sounding name? As if being Natalia gave the teachers more leeway to treat me as subhuman; as if my name sounding more Hispanic gave them more justification to be on my case. Or do I like Natalie more because, on paper, there could be no assumptions if I knew how to speak English? 

One day, my Spanish teacher told me and my friends in front of the whole class that our Spanish was ghetto. I realized then it didn’t matter that I had done everything right; I learned all the proper pronunciation in both languages as I was expected to. I was a good student in that class. My friends and I looked at each other at that moment and corrected the way we spoke. Why did I have to correct my language? Was she afraid of her credibility as a Spanish teacher, so much that she had to embarrass us? I was already embarrassed.

My sophomore-year Spanish teacher had this weird fetish for my accent. She loved the way “native-speakers” rolled their r’s and pronounced every word. So much so, that she paired us up in groups of three and made it a competition that whoever read the entire monologue while the other two acted it out, we would get extra credit points. Of course in my head “hell yeah this is MY time to shine” All my ancestors were with me at that moment because I could prove to myself that I could speak Spanish perfectly. I could finally prove it to everyone. In the end, this white boy and his group got the extra credit even after his horrid Spanish because - it did not count because I had an unfair advantage for being a Spanish Speaker. With that mentality, why was I not receiving extra credit in all of my AP English Classes? Why was my white counterpart praised for his ability to try- just because he was learning a second language? Why did being bilingual look good on him but not on ME? I have been doing this for far longer than he has - and with the weight of racist comments against my shoulders. This was the first instance where I thought “ Fuck you!” and I wanted to say it. I wanted to say it so badly to Doña Bode who did not deserve to be called Doña, it is a term of respect, and at that moment she deserved no respect. I remember this instance was the first time I spoke out, with my voice shaking I wanted to cry. Not because of the stupid extra credit, but because of this unfair treatment and because all the students agreed with her. I am not responsible for the feeling of your inadequacy. I am not responsible if you feel threatened by my ability to speak two languages - not just for merely “trying.” I am those languages and I embrace them. I AM latina and american I AM chicana. My language is a mix of both of my cultures. 

The blood boiling and my voice shaking comes from years of being misheard. And my teacher was upset with me for rebelling. My father told me to stay quiet, I do not need to be speaking out so much. But it only felt that way because it was normalized behavior. It is normal to look at my chicanisma and tell me it is not enough. Enough for what? It is not enough to correct me or to praise me. Because they are afraid of the power of my intelligence to speak out against their injustices in both of my tongues. I could not handle being sorry for who I was, and not being true to myself. 

Both learning about language inequity and my experience being an aide have helped me figure out that even as students we can help educate others about language and society. I try to start small, asking my students questions and celebrating their language and identity. I have learned to have language solidarity and the importance of it. I have fostered the tools to decolonize ideas engraved in my mind. As embarrassed as I am to admit it, I know there is still work left to be done. However, learning about language inequity has taught me to give myself and others grace, and how important it is to cultivate healthy, honest conversations about dismantling biases. I have since been opening myself up to trans language more in my day-to-day conversations and having conversations with others about everything I learned in class. I have been reminded that there is no such thing as Standard English - or even Standard Spanish, and I need to continue reminding myself as I help future emergent bilingual students. I hope to be an educator who one day allows students to feel represented in their education. As a little girl, it would have done wonders for me; maybe I would have been confident in my abilities. It makes me sad knowing that it took 15 years in education to realize that there is power in my voice, but now that I know it is there, I can finally look at the colored girl in the mirror and tell her not to sit with her head down anymore. 

My Mama immigrated to the U.S. a few years after she finished high school in Mexico. Shortly after arriving, she spent a few months attending an adult English language school. This is where she met her oasis, my Papa. 

Initially, my Mama was reluctant to speak to my Papa, but when my parents realized they both attended the same iglesia for Sunday mass and spoke Spanish, they decided to give each other a chance. Together they learned English to help navigate their world.

My family was developed out of love for religion and language, two things that helped bring my world together. Although we could hardly find time to sit down to even have a meal, my parents made sure we spent one day a week together for Sunday mass. 

However, when I began to navigate elementary school, the values cherished by my family were completely foreign to everyone in my classroom. We never brought up family or homelife, and instead focused on concepts like math, science, and English. God forbid I ever attempt to speak Spanish in the classroom. 

I became even more reluctant to share anything about my identity after being forced to leave the classroom for English Second Language (ESL) exams. Vividly, I remember a stern voice calling out to me, “is U-lie-sis here?” Who’s Ulysses? I thought to myself, my name is Ulises (ooo-lee-ses). And when I reluctantly raised my hand, my 2nd-grade teacher commanded me to take my things and leave the classroom. I remember looking back at all my peers who were staring back at me blankly. They looked confused, and so was I. Why was I the only one forced to leave the classroom?

I was led into an empty, dimly-lit, classroom. The window blinds were completely shut and there were no books, white-boards, or teachers here. Is this even a classroom? The door shut behind me and the adult who brought me here asked me to sit down and wait for her instructions.

As I waited, I remember putting my head down on the table. Maybe if I waited long enough I would fall asleep and wake up in my normal classroom. 

I wanted to be anywhere but here. The adult woke me up and said “we’re here to assess your English proficiency, and to make sure you’re not falling behind.” Falling behind, but I’m not proficient at English or Spanish, I’m equally both.

It was at this moment I knew my languages, both English and Spanish, were not equally valued. There were other students in my class who looked like me, and those who didn't. White, Black, and Brown students, yet I was the only one who was pulled out of class for “English Assessments.”

If I was going to be a normal student, one that was not forced to leave the classroom for his language, then I knew I had to remove myself from who I was. From this moment forward, I vowed to myself to never speak Spanish. Not at school, not a church, and not a home. 

And it worked, eventually I stopped receiving calls to leave class, and just like everyone else I remained in class. So long as I remained obedient. For years I spent my adolescent years, in school and at home, strictly speaking English.

Navigating the world as a bilingual speaker, yet not being able to use one of my languages made me feel like an imposter among other Spanish speakers. As lucky as I was to have loving parents who did not question my shift in attitude, my extended family did not feel the same. 

“¿Por qué tu hijo no habla Español?” My parents would often shrug and were unsure how to respond to my Tias and Tios. 

I told no one about this experience. Growing up, since I was the only student who was asked to leave the classroom for English “proficiency,” I assumed no one could understand or relate to my experience. For years I was simply known as the Mexican kid in my family that could not, or rather, would not speak Spanish. I could understand what everyone was saying, but I did not want to communicate. This made it difficult for me to connect with my extended family who did not grow up in the U.S. because Spanish was the primary language that they felt comfortable communicating in.

It was not until I took the opportunity to study abroad in Oaxaca, Mexico, where I began to reinvigorate my love for the language. And what continues to bring me closer to my roots and reestablish the values I share with my family. 

Studying at the Universidad Autonoma de Benito Juarez allowed for opportunities to engage in both English and Spanish. The instructors welcomed the usage of both languages, and the students we met during intercambios encouraged us to discuss using all our linguistic abilities, no matter how limited or advanced. 

During my childhood, to help myself navigate the world and survive, I believed in the idea that “cuando estamos en los Estados Unidos se hable Inglés.”

Today, however, I realize the profound role an inclusive environment plays in developing equity for all languages. Upon returning to UCR, I enrolled in Dr. Alice Lee’s Language & Society course, where she similarly encouraged students like me to converse in the language(s) we were most comfortable with. Like Gloria Anzaldúa's “Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza,” Dr. Lee’s class equipped me with a new perspective on my race and language as a son of immigrant parents. Her course helped me identify the systems within education that forced me to reject a part of my identity. I continue to think about the power dynamics within institutions and seek to discover how we can help students be their authentic selves without feeling the need to negotiate who they are.