My mother always tells me the story of how I stopped speaking Spanish. I came home from school one day, in grade school, and said I wasn’t going to speak Spanish anymore. I don’t remember what happened, but most can assume that a Catholic school with a white majority isn’t exactly a lingual safe haven for a chapina.
It wasn’t until recently, about a year or two ago, that I really stopped ignoring how ashamed I was, internally, of my people and my culture. I’ve grown since the plaid skirt days I spent hiding from the sun, but I don’t live in New Jersey anymore. I don’t go to Spanish church in Trenton and there isn’t a bakery with lenguas y champurradas around the corner. So, ironically, my spiritual awakening of sorts happened after I moved to the black hole of diversity that is Florida’s panhandle. Coming back to my roots hasn’t been easy, and I hit a bump in the road after I realized I was gay.