Heritage
“Are you American or Mexican?” The question was asked in good faith and curiosity by my nail tech, who was helping me determine which shades of green would look good on my fingernails. As I have olive skin/yellow undertones, it’s a valid concern. Still, in the current climate (I live in the U.S.), such a question may not always be asked with good intentions.
And the answer is complicated. Kind of. Not really. But like many Americans, I come from an interesting mix. Still, [parts of] my family was here before the United States was. So there’s that.
The reason for my skin tone—which gets dark in the summer—is because my dad’s family is partly descended from the Malagueños who were sent by the king of Spain to settle parts of Louisiana. Two of those founding families are in my lineage, and they went on to help establish New Iberia. Some of them fought on behalf of the Colonies in the Revolutionary War. In any case, some members of my dad’s family (him included) have the slightly darker skin and black hair of the Spaniards. But still the blue eyes of the French side of the family, which arrived in 1785. (It seems they saw the French Revolution on the horizon and chose to get out while they still could.)
So… No, I’m not Mexican. I’m not “Cajun,” really, either. I’m Spanish and French. On my dad’s side, at least. But I do speak Louisiana French, not Spanish. (And some textbook French, since that’s what I took as my foreign language, thinking it would be easy since I already spoke a related language.)
My mother’s family arrived much later, in the same rush of European immigrants as so many others, hailing from Luxembourg and Scotland and Ireland. They came in the 1800s and moved inland to the Dakotas and Idaho, and even as far over as Oregon. Many were farmers, but there were a few engineers in the mix, some shopkeepers and the like. I got my fair hair from my mother; at least, I think so—some of my dad’s family are also fair thanks to a Finnish ancestor. Still, I was quite the sight as a child who spent so much time outdoors: dark skin, blue eyes, and white blonde hair. I’ve told this story in another post, but when I was little and we would go to the laundromat, the Latina women there would harass my mother because they thought she was dying my hair to help me “pass” as white. They would tell my mother to be proud of my heritage, and my mom kept telling them: no, really, that’s just how she looks naturally! My hair got darker as I aged, though, so it became less of an issue. My grandparents (on my mother’s side) called me “Texican,” and it’s only recently that I realized that’s a little bit of a slur? It was played off to me as a cute nickname, but… I dunno.
Oh, but my mom’s dad’s mom is descended from Oliver Cromwell, so that’s kinda cool? Time to slay some kings? (Seriously, though, I’ve got nothing against the current Charles. Best of luck to him.)
I grew up as white, really, despite the occasional show of confusion by strangers. (Even one of my kids’ elementary teachers admitted to me she assumed I was Latina.) I’m proud of my heritage, but I’m still somewhat on the outside of the cultures from which it stems. I grew up “Cajun” to some degree, despite not actually having that pedigree (we did not go to Canada only to be displaced; we simply sailed from France to Louisiana directly). That is the culture I have the closest ties to. If I was asked to write something “own voices,” then Acadian is what I’d most likely turn to, and/or growing up lower middle class in the 80s, and/or my religious upbringing, and/or being autistic… But it definitely would not be anything Latinx. As cool as that heritage and history is, I haven’t lived it.
Though, a well-researched novel about the Malagueños? Could be cool.
I could also definitely write an authentic story about my love of queso. That’s my truth.