My mother tells me stories of dreams she had. The most memorable is about her third grade picture day. It was the night before picture day at school and my mother was excited to dress up and have her photo taken. After falling asleep, she dreamt of how her pictures would look; imagining her face with ivory skin, blonde hair flowing past her shoulders and her blue sparkling eyes. When my mother awoke from her fantasy, she was disappointed to see her black hair, brown eyes, and coffee colored skin reflected in the mirror.
Her stories continue through the university years. My mother was the only one of six children to graduate from high school and attend college. She recounts her struggle to work full-time in order to pay for school and how she fought to prove that she belonged in this intellectual university setting. She tells me of meeting my father, their courtship, and her fears as they married at the age of twenty-two and proceeded to move to
While the tales that my mother shared mesmerized me, I somehow lived my life oblivious to my mother’s struggle with her identity. My head was held high and I was aware of my importance. This was all due to the knowledge that my life would be easier than hers. I was educated, but more than this, I was light; I was fairskinned. Born with the features of my Chicana mother, but with the skin of my white father; I had it made.
It was never discussed, but I knew the value that my family put on my light skin. My mother and her Chicano family recognized the benefits of my pale-skin. Because my light color would allow me to ‘pass’ into white society, they were happy that I wouldn’t experience the same pain and humiliation associated with the dark skin that they had. It was thought that my skin would grant me an enchanted childhood.
My father’s family, on the other hand, had different reasons to be happy about my white hue. It was not the potential harm or shame that I would encounter with dark skin that worried that my father’s family; rather, it was their own embarrassment that they did not want to face. I was the first mixed child of their family, and they were not exactly comfortable with this. There was a sigh of relief when I was born ‘white’. My father’s family would not have to worry about walking down the street with a little Mexican child as people stared.
My mother rarely tells of the poverty that her family survived. Only as I got older did I begin to hear more of the hardships that my family had faced. She is hesitant to discuss in detail the humiliation of welfare and government aid. My mother’s experience with government assistance has left her scarred, yet determined to never be dependent on it again. Her past life of poverty is something that my mother would like to forget, and rightfully so. It was through my mother’s desire to protect her children from poverty and prejudice that I became ‘anglicized’; the more effectively we could pass in the white world, the better guaranteed our future.
For much of my elementary education, I attended schools filled with rich white children. It never felt quite right to me. I got along with the other students, yet I didn’t feel any real connection to them. I didn’t understand the difference between the white kids at school and me. As far as I knew, we were the same, and yet, I felt so different. My mother did not have blonde hair like the other moms and my grandparents didn’t own condos on the beach. At Christmas, we ate tamales, arroz, and tortillas, not turkey and pumpkin pie. The greatest source of my confusion stemmed from my skin color. I looked like the children at school, but my family did things so differently. While my parents constantly and subtly reminded me of my light coloring, I felt as if I blended in perfectly with my Chicano family.
In any case, I have always looked up to my mother and admired her. My mother is the epitome of a strong Mexican woman. She works full-time, cares for her children, and still finds time to nurture her family. I grew up watching her, studying her moves, how her hands became rigid as she molded the tortilla dough. I paid attention to the sweat on her brow as she ran behind me when I decided it was time to take off my bike’s training-wheels. She was my hero. My mother’s kind actions made me want to be just like her. The only problem was that I thought this was impossible.
I understood that my mother was Chicana and my father was white. What I didn’t realize was that I was brown and white too. My self-image was distorted and I felt like an outsider in every situation. I didn’t look like my mother’s family and I wasn’t at ease with my father’s family. For most of my life, I was confused as to why I felt like such an outcast.
Since the day I was born I have been told that I am ‘white.’ Nobody asked me who I was, they simply and matter-of-factly told me. Everyday I look in the mirror and I see a proud Chicana ready to take on the world. I also see the pale skin that fools outsiders. They assume I am one of them and tell me so. Instead of being bitter or angry, I use my frustration to remind myself of my pride. My pride in being Mexican; my pride in striving for success; pride in being my mother’s daughter.
Where my mother’s life becomes my own is in our mutual confusion. She was ashamed of being Mexican and tried to be white. Simultaneously, I knew I was Mexican and didn’t want to be known as white. We each experienced a youth devoid of identity and cultural awareness.
I remember all of my mother’s stories. Each one has affected me in one way or another. Some stories stand out for their humor and others for their pain. Now, as we each assume responsibility for our cultural identities, we have been able to learn about and experience our stories together.
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