Misunderstanding of our culture fuels discrimination against people with Latin American and Spanish roots.  A frank conversation can reverse the tide.

by Daniela Sirtori-Cortina

One day during my sophomore year of college, I walked into a teacher’s office to inquire about a fellowship. I sat my multiracial butt down and introduced myself.

The teacher gave me a puzzled look. Daniela. “Is that Russian?” she asked. She said she knew Sirtori, my last name, was Italian. My teacher grew more confused when I told her, in fluent English, that I was a native Spanish speaker.

“What are you?” she asked.

“I’m Hispanic,” I said, somewhat amused at the bewilderment my racial ambiguity had caused. The focus of the conversation soon shifted to the fellowship, and I was out of her office in about 30 minutes.

I didn’t think much of that conversation about my identity. As a Latina, I’m more than used to explaining why I look and talk how I do. Since I moved to the U.S. from Latin America three years ago — I’ve lived in Colombia, Ecuador and Argentina — I’ve encountered a myriad of misconceptions about what it means to be Latino.

I understand the misunderstanding, somewhat. My identity is messy — an amalgam of borrowed words, sounds and colors. Being Latino is beautiful but complex. Day to day, many of us grapple to understand how our identity fits, if at all, in the intricate framework of American society. Stereotypes — such as the notion that we’re not as smart as other Americans, that we’re hard-wired for crime and that we’re taking U.S. jobs— turn many Latinos’ daily lives into an uphill battle. The quest is even more difficult for some people who don’t fit into the term “Latinos,” a masculine noun used to refer to people with Latin American roots whether they’re male or female. But not all Hispanics conform to that strict gender binary. Although we’ve come up with some ideas for more inclusive terms — Latin@ and Latinx, for instance — there’s no consensus on an alternative. As our identities intersect, the confusion just piles on.

As a Latina, I’ve received a few hits and blows. A few months ago, I went to a branch of the Missouri DMV to get my driver’s license. One of the attendants there, upon seeing my Colombian passport, said that is “where not-so-nice people are from.” People have asked me if I have a green card. I’ve been the target of multiple jokes about drug dealing and drug use. Still, I haven’t faced a fraction of the discrimination other Latinos have encountered. I was born and raised in Latin America, so I don’t know the burdens of growing up as a minority in American society. The term “illegal alien” has never been ascribed to me. Since I was already fluent in English by the time I moved to the U.S. at age 18, I’ve never been mistreated for “not speaking clearly.” So far, I’ve been spared the worst.

I don’t know how long my luck will last. I can’t help but be scared at Donald Trump’s recent surge in the polls despite his hateful views toward some Latinos. I can’t help but be disturbed that Ann Coulter, who has said Latinos are lazy and doomed to be poor, is a New York Times best-selling author. I can’t help but be disheartened that immigration makes Americans more anxious if the newcomers are Hispanic.

Amid the presence of widespread erroneous beliefs about Latinos, many of us have become more aware of our identities. For some of us, fighting misconceptions about who we are is increasingly becoming a necessity.

“The common denominator all Latinos have is that we want some respect. That’s what we’re all fighting for,” said Christina Saralegui, a Cuban-born American talk show host, about her aim to find common ground among Latinos and promote unity.

Multifaceted diversity

My trek throughout Latin America lasted almost two decades. I was born in Cartagena, a city in Colombia on the shores of the Caribbean Sea. Because of my father’s job, my family moved often, sometimes every two years. By the time I turned 18, I had lived in two Colombian cities, two Ecuadorian cities and one city in Argentina.

Even though I was in Latin America, I didn’t just blend in everywhere I went. It might sound strange, but I’m less of an outlier in the U.S. than I was in Argentina, a Spanish-speaking country in the region I call home. In Lionel Messi’s land, 97 percent of the population is white and a special dialect of Spanish is spoken, so people knew I was foreign as soon as I said “hello.” I lived there for a year and never managed to go to a store without being asked where I was from.

My experience in Argentina underscores just how diverse Hispanics are. That should come as no surprise, given that Latin America is made up of 20 independent countries populated by a total of 575 million people. Those numbers jump to 42 and 618 million, respectively, if the Caribbean is included in the tally. Spanish is widely spoken in Latin America, but Portuguese is the native language of the 203 million people living in Brazil. And Haitians, for instance, speak Haitian Creole.

In addition, it’s not safe to count on every Latino to look like Sofia Vergara or Ricky Martin—Latin America is one of the world’s most ethnically diverse regions.

“Despite media portrayals of olive-skinned Latinas with curly hair and curvy bodies, Latinos can be black, with Afro-textured hair, brown, Indigenous, Asian, light-skinned and straight-up ethnically ambiguous,” Mic writer Raquel Reichard said in article addressing misconceptions about Latinos.

As one of the most racially ambiguous people I know, I’ve even been asked if I’m from somewhere in the Middle East or the Mediterranean. During a trip to a Native American reservation, a Lakota woman stared at me for a few seconds before deciding I didn’t belong to her tribe. And when I stand next to my Indian partner, some people assume we’re both from the same country.

Even Latinos can be thrown off by our own differences. A few weeks ago, I walked into a Colombian coffee shop in Washington, D.C. I knew the store to be a Spanish-speaking zone, so, without really thinking about it, I ordered my coffee in Spanish. But as the words came out of my mouth, I remembered a not-so-small detail: there are 54 million Latinos living in the U.S., and they display much of the same diversity that can be found in Latin America. Although Latinos seem to have a knack for sniffing each other out, there was no way for me to tell if the cashier I addressed in Spanish spoke the language or if she was even Hispanic. She answered back in Spanish, but from that moment on, I pledged to cut down on my own assumptions and address people in English unless they ask me to do otherwise. 

Among such a diverse group as Latinos, unity can be difficult to achieve — whether we’re living in Latin America or in the U.S. That’s why we can’t yet agree on how we want people to refer to us. According to Pew Research, 54 percent of people with Latin American roots who live in the U.S. don’t care if they’re called Hispanic or Latino. And there are differences among people in different states: in Texas, 46 percent of Latinos prefer the term “Hispanic.” If given the choice, however, 54 percent of Latinos living in the U.S. simply identify with their country of origin, according to Pew Research.

For me, Latino/a sticks more. I’ve grown up associating the word “Latino” with a feeling, an intangible connection shared by all people with Latin American roots. Identifying as Latino feels meaningful and profound. I used to have no problem identifying as Hispanic — as I did when I addressed my teachers two years ago as a college sophomore — but I’m increasingly moving away from the term. It feels artificial — and it is. The U.S. Census Bureau created and popularized Hispanic starting in the 1970s as an umbrella term to count people with Latin American roots. Media outlets — including Latino TV channels and publications — helped spread the word about the term and contributed to bringing into the mainstream of American culture.

Being referred to as Hispanic might not be my favorite, but it doesn’t make me feel less of a Latina. But some Latinos aren’t OK with the term Hispanic, and it’s not up to me — or anyone else but them, frankly — to dictate how they want to identify. Take, for instance, Mexican-American author Sandra Cisneros, who said: “’Hispanic’ is English for a person of Latino origin who wants to be accepted by the white status quo. ‘Latino’ is the word we have always used for ourselves,” said Cisneros, best known for her book The House on Mango Street.

As with many minorities, the safest way to be respectful might be to ask each person what term they prefer. But then there’s a question about what language to use to communicate. According to Pew Research, on average, only 38 percent of Latinos in the U.S. speak mostly Spanish, 25 percent speak mostly English, and 36 percent use both. The differences deepen when home countries come into play. Only five percent of U.S.-born Hispanics mainly use Spanish, while only 5 percent of Hispanics who live in the U.S. but were born in another country mainly use English. That explains the odd look the cashier gave me for assuming she spoke Spanish.

In a country where the vast majority of people speak English, it’s clearly an advantage to be fluent in that language. But speaking only English comes with downsides for some, who are sometimes regarded by other Hispanics as not “Latino enough.”

“Yes, I realize the importance of speaking Spanish now. (Hindsight sucks.) And no, I’m not mad at you if you ask me whether I speak Spanish or not. That’s a fair question,” wrote Samantha Leal, deputy editor of Latina magazine. “I do, however, get offended when there’s a sigh or an eye roll or something that happens that implies I’m a terrible person for not speaking Spanish. I promise you, I regret it enough for the both of us.”

White Hispanics are sometimes also included in the “not Latino enough” club. About two years ago, I was having lunch with a guy friend when an acquaintance stopped by to say hello. She had heard my friend and I speaking Spanish, so she turned to him — a white, blonde, blue-eyed male — and asked where he’d learned the language. A little shocked, he explained that he was born and raised in Argentina, so he was not only Latino, but also a native Spanish speaker. When my acquaintance left, my Argentinian friend and I laughed the incident off.

But that exchange made me realize that it may be time to ditch the assumption that Latino and white are mutually exclusive terms. Increasingly, more people of Hispanic origin are identifying as white— a major shift from just 15 years ago, when many Latinos said they belonged to “some other race.” Given those statistics, it might also be time to stop saying people are “white” if they can’t roll their “Rs” or follow a salsa beat. Suggesting that only “exotic” dark-skinned people can truly dance or speak Spanish promotes the idea that skill is linked to a person’s race or ethnicity — a belief that’s been repeatedly used against us. Take former Heritage Foundation staffer Jason Richwine, who in his Harvard dissertation said Latinos are genetically predisposed to have low IQs. He’s also said that Mexican immigrants have “shown an inability” to assimilate into American society. Luckily, many people have cast a shadow of skepticism over his views. I don’t dare imagine how devastating his belief-based policies would have been to Latinos in the U.S. – both to our culture and our physical wellbeing in the U.S.

We might be close

During my freshman year of college, I walked into my advisor’s office to inquire about online summer classes. My advisor suggested that I take a criminology course, adding that since I’m Colombian, I must know a lot about the subject.

I don’t remember how I reacted to her comment. I just know that I came into her office looking for guidance and left with nothing but shame.

For Latinos, even the most routine interactions can turn into negative situations. I have a million positive things to say about my roots — I mean, who wouldn’t be proud of growing up in Shakira’s hometown, or of having been born in the same country as the man who made the world’s first attempt to create a vaccine against malaria? But oftentimes, I find myself explaining that no, most Latino immigrants aren’t hardened criminals, or that growing up in a war-torn country doesn’t instantly make me an expert in criminal behavior. 

I’m not the only Hispanic who routinely faces these questions. But these micro aggressions are nothing compared to what other people have endured. Even today, 61 percent of people say Latinos are significantly discriminated against.

“I see it in people’s faces, in the way they react,” Raymond Angulo, a Mexican-born U.S. citizen, told the Huffington Post. “It’s gotten somewhat better, but it’s still there. I feel like it’s never going away.”

I’m a little more optimistic. Every day, more and more Latinos are making an effort to spread the word about who we really are and about the magnitude of our potential. Efforts like Latino USA, an NPR show produced from a Latino perspective, offers insights into Latino culture and its intricacies. Little by little, Hispanics are dispelling the wide misconceptions about our identities that have unfortunately been embedded in many people’s minds. We’ve finally come to understand why showing our true colors is so important — sadly, nothing fuels hate more than ignorance.

Maybe our next step isn’t La Casa Blanca (the White House) like Pitbull suggests. But we might be close — we’ve been making strides for decades. Maurice Ferre, born in Puerto Rico, became Miami’s first Latino mayor in 1973. Sonia Sotomayor in 2009 became the first person of Hispanic heritage to serve on the U.S. Supreme Court. A few Latinos, including Pope Francis, have made it to Time Magazine’s “Most Influential People In The World” list. As more Latinos rise into prominence, our presence in this country might start to be seen as an asset, not a burden.

For now, however, all I want is to be referred as a “who” instead of a “what.” I want to have a conversation about my culture that doesn’t feature questions about smuggling drugs or inhaling substances. I’d like to show my passport without being told I come from a country that apparently breeds “bad” people. And I want to be referred as Latina, not Spanish or exotic.

A Latina girl can dream. 

Daniela Sirtori-Cortina identifies as a female Latina journalist. She’s into news, politics, justice and black eyeliner. Her goal is to show, through her stories, the direct link between the political process and peoples’ everyday lives. Follow her on Twitter.