Life is full of inevitable things: death, taxes, conflicts, sudden change, and heartbreaks. But I guess that’s the price we pay for being alive as humans. Another human construct that seems impossible to avoid, especially the questioning or focus on it, is race.
When it comes to college or job applications, as well as other life important documents and applications, they ask what a person’s race is and then provide limiting answers. The racial categories, including White, Black, American Indian or Alaskan Native, and Asian or Pacific Islander, as well as the ethnic category to indicate Latino or Non-Latino, leave me smirking at their restrictiveness. I find myself confused by the options, causing me to either opt out of answering or select “other.” However, the employer would likely glance at my name and label my race on my behalf. As a Cortes, they would assume Latino, which is only partially correct. Both my mixed-race blood and grandmother would attest to this fact.
Conflicted about my racial identity, I alternate between pride and shame. In social situations, people often remark that I look exotic or different, which makes me feel proud of my mixed race. However, in professional settings where I am expected to classify or categorize myself, I am unsure of what to claim: White, Black, American Indian or Alaskan Native, and Asian or Pacific Islander, or Latino or Non-Latino.
My mother is Mexican, and my father is Puerto Rican and Black. This is who I am, but at times, I disconnected instead. Due to a painful separation between my parents, I grew up without my father and his family, without experiencing their cultures. And with my Mexican race; well I feel like an impostor. My grandmother has always made me feel non-Mexican. Although I used to think it was because of my American attitude and lack of proficiency in Spanish, looking back at my childhood, I realize it might have been something else. I am the darkest member of the family.
Silvia Abarca is a woman whose obsession with physical appearance knows no bounds. She has always been fixated on how she looks, how others look, and what the “right” way of looking is. Even at her advanced age, she still spends a fortune on cosmetic surgeries and beauty products. It’s unclear where this obsession stems from, but my mom says it’s been around for as long as she can remember. Silvia was born in Guerrero, Mexico, in 1955, and although she has a light complexion, brown eyes, a slim face, and a petite frame, her face always seems to express judgement.
Silvia takes impeccable care of her skin, constantly waging war against the signs of aging with her skincare routines and products, despite the inevitability of the aging process. She has short, thick hair that she’s dyed the same shade of brunette with blonde highlights for as long as anyone can remember. Looking at pictures of her from when she was younger, I can see that even then, she had an air of criticism about her. But she was also undeniably beautiful, with rosy cheeks, generous lips, and a smile that could heal you in an instant. Although my grandmother is beautiful, she spends a great deal of energy convincing herself and others that she is.
Her children were the first to feel the wrath of her obsession with beauty and physical appearance. She has three daughters and one son. Throughout their lives, she criticized how they looked, dressed, and behaved. She even competed with all of her daughters. When she was in her late thirties, with grown kids and their father no longer in the picture, she lived her prime. She’d spend a lot of time fixing up her image with makeup and beautiful clothes, then going out to show off her looks. So much so that she tagged alongside her daughters when they would go out to clubs. One night, while they were all out dancing, a man asked my grandmother how she might have had a better-looking body than all of her daughters. To this day, she still brings it up to them.
My grandmother often said, “el amor de los nietos es más maravilloso que el amor de los hijos” (the love of grandchildren is more marvelous than the love of the children). However, her grandchildren were also scrutinized. Although she swore she loved us all the same, she always played favoritism. Amongst the six of us, there are two girls and four boys. The first four were born within a year or two of each other, while the two youngest came later.
When we were all between 6 to 9 years old, my grandmother would often watch over us. She spoiled us, dressed us up, and gave us nicknames based on our looks. Madeline, the oldest grandchild, was the spitting image of my grandmother when she was younger, petite and pale, so she would dress her up in ruffled laced dresses and called her flaca or la nina mas linda (skinny or the prettiest girl). Her youngest grandson, Luis, had a light skin tone and sun-kissed hair, which made him appear white. She adored him and would give him anything he wanted. He had a plethora of nicknames: pelios de elote, rey, cielo, and angelito. However, the other two grandchildren weren’t as fortunate. Jovanni was the chunkiest, and she obsessed over his weight, reminiscing about how much he ate as a baby. She nicknamed him ñoño after a TV show character. As for me, I was skinny and petite, but my nickname was Chimoltrufia, or Chimo for short, named after another character from the same TV show. This character was a poor girl with messed up hair, raggedy clothes, and dark skin who was often made fun of.
Despite her loving nature, my grandmother had a clear preference for lighter skin tones, something that became increasingly apparent as my cousins and I grew up. She has a house in Waukegan, Illinois, a city in the north next to Lake Michigan, and when we were kids, she would take us swimming. After finding a spot on the beach, she would lather us up with sunscreen, and it would seem like it would last forever. Once, Luis was so impatient to get in the water that he yelled, “¡No quiero!” (I don’t want to), and frustrated, my grandmother yelled back, “¿¡Quieres ponerte negro como tu prima!?” (Do you want to get black like your cousin?) I was only six years old when I heard her say those words, and the silence was louder than the crashing of the waves. I felt so ashamed of how I looked.
As we grew older, my grandmother’s opinions have become more uncivilized. Once, when my cousin Jovanni brought home a girl for the holidays, my grandmother gave her opinion, forgetting that I was there. She said that Jovanni’s girlfriend was so beautiful and that she was glad she was a Latina that looks white and has blonde hair. My cousin Madeline called her out and told her she shouldn’t say things like that. Offended, my grandmother yelled, “no sabes lo que estoy diciendo” (you don’t know what I mean), but I knew what she meant.
Maybe it’s colorism, or perhaps my grandmother has a preference for beauty. But I don’t believe she hates my skin color. My grandfather’s skin was the same color, and she loved him dearly. But he was an alcoholic and a burden to her, and she resented that. I think it was her life experiences and upbringing that formed her opinions about what is ugly.
Recently my mother told me that my grandmother used to say her mother was mean to her and treated her differently. She said that my great-grandmother would introduce my grandma as the ugly daughter and her sister as the pretty one. Before having it surgically removed, my grandmother had a large mole on the side of her nose that her mother often ridiculed, instilling insecurity and shame permanently. My great-grandmother greatly affected my grandmother’s upbringing, and she doesn’t speak much of her childhood other than rarely being the center of her mother’s love. If it wasn’t my grandma’s sister basking in my great-grandmother’s love, it was the men who looked like me that devoured it all. My grandma resented these types of men and her mother. Generational trauma. Another silly human construct.
Silvia’s heritage remains somewhat of a mystery to me, as I’ve never heard her speak about it firsthand. Rather, my knowledge comes from my mother’s accounts or my own independent research. Despite my curiosity, my grandmother seldom delves into her past in Guerrero, Mexico, hinting only at its perceived danger. Thus, I took it upon myself to explore and connect with my heritage.
Through an extensive search, I stumbled upon a breathtaking revelation that left me beaming. Guerrero, known as the most diverse state in Mexico, boasts the largest population of African descendants in the country. This discovery stirred something within me, as my grandmother’s lineage might trace back to the same group, which would make us both mixed. Yet, despite this potential connection, my grandmother remains fixated on racial distinctions and may be rejecting a piece of who she is.
Reflecting on my upbringing, I see how my grandmother’s preoccupation with beauty and appearance affected my own self-perception. I felt perpetually inadequate, not attractive enough, not light enough, never measuring up to some unattainable standard. My worth should not be determined by superficial traits or race. It took considerable effort to accept myself fully, to celebrate my mixed heritage, and to love myself despite my perceived flaws.
I’ve come to realize that some things in life are inevitable, like the struggles we face and the pain we feel. But we have the power to choose how we respond to them. I choose to love myself and to see my worth beyond what others may say or think about me. I choose to embrace my roots and history, even if it may be complicated or challenging at times. And most importantly, I choose to be kind to myself and to others, to see the beauty in diversity, and to celebrate the differences that make us unique.
Sentiments of a Writer 