We certainly do create our own boxes. One of mine is the title of this blog. 

Whitina. White Latina. It’s true. I’m not an Afro-Latina. I’m a guerrita. Puro Chiquimula. And it’s layered. My Dad’s side comes from the mountains. But only can tell me how much of me is a Colonizer. How much of me is Native? My best friend is Oxacan. Maybe we are cousins?

First generation. Guatemalan American. Today I quoted the Hamilton soundtrack. Immigrants, we get the job done. And I shouldn’t have been surprised to be told that I wasn’t an immigrant. Technically no. I did not immigrate. My parents did. With documentation and without. But culturally, how can someone else measure it? I’ve measured. We are a family unit. We are immigrants and first generation. We went through the immigrant experience together.  

  • When I asked for permission/ explained the concept of a sleepover. You have a bed here. Why do you want to sleep on the living room floor at your friend’s house? 
  • Whenever I heard my Dad speak in English with us versus how he spoke when someone White was present. 
  • When friends came over and my mom asked me a question– they asked, what did she say? And I’m like, you didn’t hear her?
  • When I finally realized Sundays at church was the only time my parents got to speak Spanish with other adults. Their only friends. Their only friends. Their only community outside our family unit. Long distance calls were expenses we couldn’t afford. 

Female. Lady. Womyn. Yep. Not a man. 

Californian. Born in Los Angeles. Done. 

Done with boxes for today. 


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