“Me estoy sacrificando para que seas alguien en la vida y que no estés sufriendo como yo.” Wise words from my mother, or from any mother, really, who has had it hard in their lives. As a child, she would constantly drill these words into my head about how she sacrifices herself so I can be successful someday. I always used to question what she meant by this as she would contradict her own words by treating me as someone destined to be nothing but a housewife.

Xochitl Morales, a person of hispanic descent herself, wrote a poem called, “Latino-Americanos: The Children of an Oscuro Pasado”, in which she expresses the values of being Latin American and how that has shaped her. However, as a Latin-American, my ethnic identity is one of the factors that define me and yet, for most of my life I have had trouble identifying with it and seeing its true values.

Being a hispanic female, I have always had certain responsibilities to perform. By the age of eight my mom had taught me how to cook rice with habichuelas and chicken, do the family’s laundry, and clean the whole house—including bedrooms that weren’t even mine. I knew that was her way of teaching me how to be a “good wife,” even though she would say that these are basic things I need to learn in life.

During one summer, the kitchen—with its white floor tiles, old maple wood cabinets, and scents of sizzling sweet plantain—would be the place I would spend most of my time. I was about 12 years old when I began to wake up at 7 am every morning to screams that could shatter glass. They came from my mom demanding me to help her make coffee with pan de yuca for the family. I dreaded these moments, especially since it was summer. While other kids went out and had fun, I would be stuck indoors, waiting for the water to boil.

I would cry to my mom, pleading with her to give me a break and allow me to sleep in for once. But it was just like talking to a wall. She would ultimately call me lazy and remind me, for the hundredth time, of when she was a six-year old in Ecuador and would wake up early to cook everyone’s meal and clean the house. This was all confusing at the time since I thought she wanted better things for me. Times like these provoked me to hate my ethnic background and ask, “Why do I have to be Hispanic?” I began to think that our unique, savory seasonings and rhythmic music were all a mask to shield the truth that my culture is actually training little girls to be “good wives.” Similarly, the speaker in Morales’ poem begins to reject her native language, since it wasn’t common in her school, and prides herself in being “American over Mexican” (11).

When my brother, Jefferson, turned eight, I never really saw my mom make an effort to teach him these basic things that I would do on a daily basis. One afternoon, probably out of jealousy, I approached my mom and asked “Why don’t you make Jefferson cook instead of me?” She responded “Because he’s a boy.” I wasn’t surprised by this answer, since in my culture, it is expected that females stay at home and cook while men work for the household’s income. Being his big sister, I would still make him help me with the responsibilities of the house when it was time to cook or do laundry.

I remember, around the time I was 16, I was laying on my bed in my soft-lit room, listening to pop songs play on the radio. Suddenly, my mom stormed in, a vein visible on her temple, asking why I hadn’t cooked the rice yet. She began to reprimand me, “You think your husband is going to cook for you and serve you in bed?” I was frustrated at her response. How could she think this? Is this what she wanted for me?

I nervously yelled back at her and told her that if she wants me to focus on being a good wife, then I should just leave school. Immediately her face went pale. I feared her reaction. Yet, she quietly stepped out of my room. A few days later she sat me down by my bed and expressed that she wasn’t trying to make me a housewife, but instead, wanted me to develop a career so I wouldn’t have to be dependent on a man. I realized that her viewpoint on this grew from her personal experiences in Ecuador, where most men are “machistas” who believe that men are superior to women, and, therefore, she was just trying to prepare me for her kind of reality.

Throughout the years, my ethnic identity has defined me. I used to think it was for the worst, but now I realize it was for the best. I am the daughter of immigrant parents who have never walked passed college doors. The first in my family, here in the United States, to go to college. I realized that my roots were an encouragement to strive high and not fall under the stereotypes of being a Hispanic female. “We inherited the strength/ We have inherited the passion” (24-25). I am who I am today because of my race and I am proud of it. It has given me strength and dedication in my personal and educational growth. Once a hardship with my mother, with the responsibilities I was given as an eight year old, has actually led to my maturity and helped me in the long run. As the speaker says, “por que somos Latino-Americanos and we will not be forgotten”(39-40).

Work Cited

Morales, Xochitl. “Latino-Americanos: The Children of an Oscuro Pasado.” Poem by Subimal

Sinha-Roy,

www.poetrysoup.com/poem/latino-americanos_the_children_of_an_oscuro_pasado_995354.

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