A Girl and Her Ethnicity
“Don’t mess with us, we’re Chilenas”
Chile is a long, skinny country placed on the western coast of South America, a country many forget exists, if they knew about it to begin with. I was not only born in Chile but was raised Chilean by my single mother for the first three years of my life. This has always been a fact of my life, one made obvious by my name alone, Valentina Alvarez Jesús.
After meeting online and pursuing a pen-pal friendship for several months, my mother met my adoptive father in person in Miami, FL in 2001 and eloped a month later, on a boat in Alaska. I was the ring bearer. She used to tell me, “I fell in love with his brain before ever seeing a picture of him.”
When I first met him, I ran to him and asked, “Daddy?”, solidifying their decision for him legally adopting me at age three.
‘Lind’ was added as my last name and Jesús was removed on my new American passport. My parents thought if Jesús was in my legal American name, I’d get teased in school. My mother and I quickly picked up our life and moved to Juneau, Alaska where my father worked as a marine biologist at the time.
The years flew by and as we became permanent American citizens, my mother had two more daughters. America is my home, but as I regularly visit my mother’s side of the family once a year, so is Chile.
I recently began working part-time at a yoga studio where I met my co-worker, Cassie. After conversing for only an hour, we came to the surprising similarity that we were both Chilean. It was at that moment I had the realization that at twenty-three years old, I’d never run into another Chilean in the states before. It was strange to me that in only knowing this girl an hour, I already knew her ethnicity. I’ve known people for years and never divulged my Hispanic background.
I asked Cassie where in Chile she was born when she replied, “Oh, I never really lived in Chile. I’ve actually only been for school.” She’s learning Spanish but doesn’t have the opportunity to visit her Chilean relatives often, and knows the country’s historic background from what her grandmother told her. Cassie, with only familial ties to the country, wears her connection like a proud badge. I shy from mine.
I began circumventing conversations surrounding Chile when I was twelve. While in public school in Texas, we were instructed by our teacher to create a family tree to present to the class as a final project. We could pick either side of our family, but the genealogy presentation needed to include names, dates, locations, and pictures. I spent weeks on this project. With my mother and grandmother’s help, I chose my Chilean side and went as far back as my grandfather’s great-grandmother. On a baby blue poster paper, I fit everyone’s information in tiny writing, with enough room for pictures and glitter doodles. When it was my turn to present my project, I stood in front of my class and described Santiago, Chile where I was born and most of my family is located. I exhibited pictures of my grandparents and my favorite foods. When I finished, two classmates clapped. My teacher walked up to my project and inspected it. She then said, in front of the entire class, “I can’t tell if you’re joking or being serious.” I was confused. She then asked for proof that I was Hispanic. I was still confused. The proof was on the poster? She implied, not so subtly, that I didn’t look Hispanic. It wasn’t until I was older that I understood she had a specific picture of what “Hispanic” looked like in Texas. A classmate yelled for me to speak Spanish. I was in near tears, too embarrassed. She then asked me to bring my birth certificate to school the next day before she can grade my project. The next person walked up for their turn to present. I was shaking. I went home and asked my mother for my birth certificate. When she asked why, I told her what had happened at school. To this day, I have never seen my mother vibrate with anger like she did that day. She marched to my school the next day, straight to the principal and requested my teacher be present. She never told me what she said to them, but that afternoon my teacher apologized to me in front of the class. I got an A on my project.
Unfortunately, I can probably pinpoint my aversion to my ethnicity around similar experiences. After that, I passed on trips to Chile for three years before I went again. I rarely spoke of Chile at school and slowly, we even stopped consistently speaking Spanish at home.
After a couple of weeks, Cassie invited me to hang out with her boyfriend and their friends. It was at their house, several drinks in when one of her friends made a joke about how he was an underground fighter and if I wanted to pretend-fight him. Cassie overheard the exchange and stepped in front of me proclaiming, “Don’t mess with us, Jake. We’re Chileans and can throw down.” He laughed, she laughed, both moved on and the conversation was over. I’m not even sure they would remember the exchange if I were to ask about it today. I, however, remember it. I thought about it all night. It wasn’t normal to drop your ethnicity like that. I mean, was it?
Who cares if we’re Chilean?
Cassie had no idea I felt like this about my background, we had talked about it so openly until then. It wasn’t until I told this story to my mother that I became ashamed of my reaction. She was sad that it bothered me so much. That it was even a story I felt I needed to share with her. It’s almost ridiculous looking back that I was so hesitant regarding that part of myself. Most people think it’s unique to be from Chile and others, don’t care either way. My mother always said she was the black sheep of her family for moving to the states, but no matter where she goes, Chile goes with her. She taught me this in the same way Cassie did. I’m proud to know Cassie and am inspired by her familiarity with her heritage. I think Cassie reminded me of the best part of Chilean culture, the familial relationship you feel toward everyone. The closeness you can feel to a stranger. I hope Cassie and I get to visit Chile together soon.
Looking in the mirror, all I see is my Chilean family in me. I’m proud of my long, dark lashes that stick straight like my grandmother’s and the thick hair on my head like my uncle. My nose is a replica of my grandfather, and my smile is my mother’s. I’m lucky, I grew up eating empanadas and marzipan, and when I turned 18, drinking pisco sours and Chilean vino.
As I grew up, I learned the difference between race and ethnicity, even nationality. The United States media invented the concept that all Hispanics look a certain way. Brown skin, dark eyes, and dark hair. It’s ironic that my teacher was surprised that you can be Latina and white when the Spanish community is one of the more physically diverse groups of people. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was doing exactly what Ghandi said not to do. I was “letting other people walk through my mind with dirty feet.” In essence, I was letting others - and their idea of what Hispanic looks like - ruin my current day and my future days. As an adult I’m not only proud of my ethnicity, but also my nationality. I wasn’t born in the United States, but I’m an American. I was born in Chile, so I’m also Chilean. I’m white, with green eyes and brown hair. Maybe that’s the epitome of growing up, knowing yourself better. Every part of yourself. Evolving into someone that your younger self would be proud of. I’m not twelve anymore, I don’t shy away from where I come from. I embrace it.