Personal Narrative: What Makes Me Who I Am

People in Central America especially, long to have their basic necessities met. Visiting Guatemala and Mexico at the age of ten was a hard site to see. Kids walking on the street barefoot not because they wanted to, but they had no money to buy shoes. Making their dirty feet ache at night. Wearing the same clothes full of filth because they could not afford to buy clothes and soap. Parents struggling to provide for their family. They would often sent their child to school without lunch, making it hard for the student to concentrate at school. Any little money counts and they would make it last. Yet they were so welcoming and loving to guest. They had nothing to offer but the little they had they would offer. Family’s full of frustration and no hope turn to the journey of going to “el Norte”. Hoping to have a better life and help their family improve their social status.

Many of us Mexican immigrants believe in a better life, Where there is hope, Where there is a chance to start a new life. But many of us will never be able to experience that “American dream”. Luckily, I am one of few who escaped from the life of depression and desperation. I remember my mom telling me every day, “Ivan you have to work hard to get what you want in life. Usted tiene que trabajar duro para conseguir lo que quiere en la vida mijo”. When I would listen to the misfortune of the people from my city, it would motivate me even more into reaching my goal. I was tired of living a life where there was people with broken hearts everywhere I go. Tired of the disappointment. I couldn’t take it anymore. At the point, I had to leave.

Whenever I am asked to describe where I grew up, I always find this difficult for me to answer. Simply because, I have lived in five different locations, spanning three different continents, all before the age of seventeen. As a result of growing up in a military-oriented lifestyle, the concept of constantly moving around was nothing new to me. Rather than view it as a shortcoming, I grew fond of the idea of moving to somewhere new—to a location where I have yet to explore and integrate myself into. Thus, due to my exposure to a multitude of cultures and individuals from all walks of life, this has affected how I move through the world’s space. In this paper, I will be discussing how the following concepts of my subject position: my ethnicity, culture, and identity as child of a retired U.S. Airman reflect Gloria Anzaldúa’s discussion of la mestiza.

Time passed and I still hated Mexico. I complained every day, I wanted to go back to the place I loved, but a knife cuts both ways with a loose definition of origin, it’s effortless to feel as if you don’t belong anywhere. I started to see the bright sides of moving to Mexico, such as having my entire family with me and having more time to learn about the country I was born from and obtain pride within it. However, Mexico was not my country, it was always busy with people shouting and the school was not helping either. The school was far from accepting, everyone knew each other since kindergarten getting a new kid was like winning an exceedingly rare lottery. Everyone had a rough time adapting, but at the end, we all found our way, after all, intelligence is the ability to adapt. We stayed in Mexico for a year, this gave me enough time to fall in love with my country, I accepted the situation for exactly what it was instead of trying to manipulate it into what I believe it should be. However wonderful or substandard the situation was I would always find the solution. The traffic was unbearable, the city was too dangerous, my accent was confusing. I accepted these challenges so I could feel the acceleration of victory, I started to take the subway, never left the house alone and started to observe how everyone else spoke and copied their accent, even though hard work does not guarantee success, success cannot be achieved without hard work. We also gained a

Returning to Mexico after seventeen years of living in the United States gave me an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. Walking down the streets of San Cristobal de las Casas, Chiapas, had a familiar feel, like being home. San Cristobal de las Casas, which is a relatively small city in the highlands of Chiapas, is plagued with poverty rooted in its colonial history. Many streets bustle with people from all over the world near the zocalo, which is a public plaza in the center of the city filled with coffee shops, intellectuals, indigenous children, and adults. As you walk by you can overhear people speaking in unfamiliar languages. While sitting outside at a coffee shop I became

This summer I lived in Oaxaca, Mexico, an unbelievably beautiful and cultured town, for six weeks. There were so many different types of people. There were so many different types of everything, actually. The customs were very abnormal to me. The stores greatly varied from each other and the ones here. The styles in Oaxaca and the styles in The States are about as different as night and day. It was all, well, foreign to me.

My family and I left Mexico before I could even form the words “permanently residing.” After that, my life became a story of disconnection. My childhood was built upon the forceful disconnection of my cultural roots from my life that began with the ripping of the Spanish language from my tongue.

I was born in Honduras, a small, developing nation, known for the high levels of poverty, and delinquency. I grew up in a small city in Honduras, and lived there for fifteen years. The city is called “La Esperanza”, which translates to “The Hope”. In this city I learned how to speak Spanish, English, and French. It is in this city that I also discovered my passion. It all started the day that I volunteered in a medical brigade, as a translator.

This summer I had the pleasure of traveling to the state of Jalisco in Mexico. Although I had been there many times throughout my childhood, I only now have begun to see the world through different eyes. When I was younger I would appreciate the beauty I saw in my many journeys to various unique places; but now as a maturing young adult, I not only see the outer beauty, but the people who inhabit these lands.

Coming from Mexico was a difficult transition, but looking back at that memory, it is a reminder that anything is possible. I remember the sun felt like an oven most days. Sweat ran down my back and through my clothes. One summer day I walked to meet my new future,however, I kept thinking and admiring my beautiful country: Mexico. Time passed by quickly From the time I woke until the time I reached the airplane. My feet weakened with pain and excitement. Pain because I was leaving my family behind to find a better future or myself. I knew,the trees, the beautiful flowers: the lilies, the Violets, The marigolds, and the strong yet satisfying smell of el chile. I felt excitement because I would be able to see something new that would become

Whenever I am asked to describe where I grew up, I always find this difficult for me to answer. To further complicate matters, I have lived in five different locations, spanning three different continents, all before the age of seventeen. As a result of growing up in a military-oriented lifestyle, the concept of constantly moving around was nothing new to me. Rather than view it as a shortcoming, I grew fond of the idea of moving to somewhere new—to a location where I have yet to explore and integrate myself into. Thus, due to my exposure to a multitude of cultures and individuals from all walks of life, this has affected how I move through the world’s space. In this paper, I will be discussing how the following concepts of my subject position: my ethnicity, culture, and identity as child of a former service member reflect Gloria Anzaldúa’s discussion of la mestiza.

The summer of my sophomore year, my parents decided to take my brother and me to visit La Palma, Tamasopo, San Luis Potosi, México, the “pueblo” (town) where my father blossomed. I have always liked going to see my grandparents and tell them my stories about life in what they call “el otro lado” (the other side). Although I have already gone there dozens of times, I was excited for this trip. I longed to walk down the dirt roads, smell the authentic Mexican cooking that my grandmother makes to help us feel at home, the “huapangos” (a style of Mexican music, originated in La Huasteca, a region of San Luis Potosi) that my grandfather blasts to drown out the sound of the morning rooster, and with my Coolpix 530 camera in hand, I was ready to capture and save the beauty of the Mexican lifestyle.

Mexico itself was beautiful, Jay Kelley thought to himself one night in his hotel room. The architecture, the people, the art and culture, it was all wonderful. The food was divine, the women even more so, and Jay had never felt so simultaneously happy and out of place in his life. To Mexico, he was another tourist. A balding, middle-aged white guy with a fanny pack that his almost ex-wife pushed into his hand before he left for the airport. She told him to be real careful of the pickpockets “down there”, and Jay resented her so much in that moment, he wanted to slap her upside the head and scream “You’ve only ever been to Cancun, ya dummy! What do you know?” Instead, he smiled tightly and waved a tense goodbye as she drove away from the gate, actually breathing a sigh of relief once she was out of sight, like in the movies.

Puebla is a city in east-central Mexico, southeast of Mexico City. Puebla is known for its culinary history, architecture, pottery, and beautiful culture. However, it's plagued with extreme poverty, immigration issues, and sexual violence. I had the opportunity to visit this city twice between sophomore and senior year. Both visits shaped me in a drastic way and changed my view on many things. The most formative event that occurred during my experience in Puebla took place in an immigration center. My views regarding immigration prior to visiting this center were always in a state of fluctuation. I never really knew or even cared how I stood on the idea of immigration, but once I arrived there everything changed. It was a gloomy day and we had driven a long three hours to plainly get to the center, everyone was in a somber mood and just wanted to go home. The moment I walked into the center I knew something special was about to happen to me. The atmosphere was bubbling and the people there were beautiful in their own right. After listening to presentations about immigration we were given the opportunity to explore the facility. Looking around all I saw was joy and laughter, this challenged me. How could people in such desperate situations be so joyful? The answer to this question came through an immigrant I met, María. She was a gentle, humble, and quiet woman who only spoke when spoken to. After asking her a variety of questions tears were brought to my eyes. She began her

Travelers keep asking me if it is safe to go to Mexico City and that’s the first question when they talk about the … 48 … ‘Mexico City’. That’s quite normal and the answer is always ‘yes’ although the drug-related murders tend to happen in northern border zones, far from where the majority of travelers to the country visit, and yet many potential visitors are still avoiding the country. If you know where to go and do your research on Mexico City, you will definitely enjoy your … 49 … . “It’s so fascinating and the city makes me visit there again and again”. I witness before my eyes that beauty of Mexico City and I’d rather say that there really is no more fascinating city in the world than Mexico's misunderstood capital.