When I was approached about writing an article to celebrate Hispanic Heritage Month, I thought it would be an easy task. Of course I’m Hispanic. I mean, look at me, right? No.
Some people are obvious and open members of a minority Latino culture of the United States. Others, like me, find ourselves having to look for opportunities in conversations to tell people “I am a first-generation American.” Our “Hispanic-ness” is not readily apparent to the casual observer, despite the fact our identities are rooted in Latin American culture.
There may be a specific box for me to check on certain forms but the reality is there is no one description of a Hispanic person in the United States. Latin Americans in the United States come from backgrounds as diverse and multi-faceted as anyone else. The experiences of those with Afro-Caribbean backgrounds are different to those of Latinos with indigenous ancestry or others whose families emigrated from Japan to Chile three generations ago. This diversity means I can only identify with my own experiences and the shared experiences of my family.
And yet, when I meet a colleague of Hispanic heritage, there is an instant appreciation for the fact we come from cultures and backgrounds through which, as diverse as they may be, we share a bond. Our language unites us. Often, aspects of our ancestry tie us to Spain. There is a sense of kinship. At the same time, I also have that sense of kinship when I am traveling abroad and I meet another American. We get each other. So where am I on the spectrum of Hispanic-American culture? I consider myself completely American, yet I perceive my Americanness through the lens of my Hispanic heritage.
My father and his family came to New York in 1959 from Cuba just as Fidel Castro was closing the island off from the rest of the free world. My mother visited New York from Colombia in 1966 and decided to apply for a green card and make a life in the United States. My parents met in Queens as teenagers and were married by age 20. Three babies soon followed. My father grew tired of the cold weather and the hectic pace of life so we moved from our multi-ethnic neighborhood in Queens to Irving, Texas.
In 1974, north Texas was still predominantly ethnically white and the adjustment was not an easy one for our family. I did not speak English when I began kindergarten. I did not know any other children with immigrant parents. I could feel the difference of the culture of my classmates to my own. My mother played Julio Iglesias records and my dad took us to a little bodega near the Catholic Cathedral in Dallas where we could get Malta and plantain chips. When kids found out I spoke Spanish, they wanted to know if my mom made tacos. I did not know what tacos were. I did not know the Tex-Mex culture. I did not know the white Texan culture. I had to figure out who I was and how my culture fit into my new life.
I don’t know how or when it happened, but I assimilated. We had a couple of negative experiences during elementary school so my parents stopped speaking to us in Spanish at home so our accents would lessen. We were poor but my parents were motivated. They came from families where education was valued. My mother taught herself French and Portuguese. She worked as a nurses’ aide in an urban hospital and still managed to earn a degree, all the while taking care of three little children. She is still a voracious reader and reads in three languages.
My father had worked three jobs his senior year in high school to support his mother and two younger siblings. He put himself through college without student loans and began working in Dallas as an electrical engineer. My parents truly believed and lived the idea this country is a place where, if you have the will, you can find a way get to your destination. No doubt we all faced tough days. But goals were accomplished nonetheless.
These many years later, I don’t fit the mold so many people try to put Hispanic women into in America. I am 5’9. I don’t dress like Sofia Vergara. My married surname is Irish.
Perhaps my Hispanic heritage is not evident to others, but the influence of my roots is always with me. I speak with a Texas drawl, but my mother still calls me by my Spanish nick-name. At family gatherings, we discuss American politics over Cuban roast pork and black beans and rice. I am a first-generation American who doesn’t know any other life than being an American with parents who came from other countries.
I cannot say how growing up Hispanic has given me a different perspective on what it means to be a lawyer any more than someone who grew up Lebanese in Minnesota, or Korean in California or Nigerian in Virginia. It wasn’t being Hispanic that encouraged my desire for justice, it was growing up in a home with a father who lost his country to communism. I became an attorney because I wanted to make a difference in the lives of vulnerable people, not because I am Hispanic, but because I have never forgotten the horrific poverty of street children I witnessed during visits to Colombia.
These are not uniquely Hispanic experiences, but they are the ones that shaped my world view and gave me the desire to practice law. Maybe you wouldn’t take a passing glance at me and put me in the Latina category. Maybe you would. I do not know and I guess it does not really matter. These things I know: I am who I am because of both the ancestry and influence of my parents. I am Hispanic, American, and a lawyer – and I am deeply grateful for the privilege of being included in each of those categories.
Monica Rey Bailey is an associate at Chamblee Ryan P.C. in Dallas.