Surrendering to Complexity
I am a Latina, LatinX, Hispanic and sometimes White. I am Colombian and American. I am strong and I am deeply fragile. I am an athlete and a bookworm. I am a Feminist and a romantic. I am happy and often melancholic. I am this just for today…
I met my husband over twenty years ago on the second floor of a rundown building in Cambridge, MA. We met on a Dojo mat. We were both martial artists at the time. I had the solid intention of focusing on training hard. No distractions. And yet, those transparent eyes that I first saw amidst movement and sweat turned out to be the love of my life.
My husband was born in Belfast, U.K. He goes by Tony, which at the time I thought was weird because he is Irish and not Italian (stereotypes… there you go). It didn’t dawn on me that going by “Tony” actually had so much more baggage for him. It happens that he grew up in a practicing Catholic home during the height of The Troubles. I only came to fully understand the weight of his name when we received some concerns from my in-laws after deciding to name our firstborn Liam. Apparently, it is wise to stay away from strong Irish names in Northern Ireland not only to avoid political assumptions, but also because it was at times frankly safer.
We dated for a few years, got married, I became pregnant, and we moved to the suburbs of Boston. Until then, we were just a young couple both living in our newly adopted country. The differences between us were quite soft. In fact, coming from two countries at war made us more similar than different. We understood each other’s paranoias with little judgement (one of his was to never sit with his back towards the door; one of mine was to try to avoid red lights when driving at night). However, over time we began to realize that although we had relatable pasts, our present experiences were distancing us.
Though I certainly had a few instances of already feeling "otherness", these became more regular when we moved to the suburbs, and even more pronounced when we were together. People were quick to make a fuss of Tony being from Ireland and having that cute accent. The “where are you from” followed long, friendly exchanges for him, whereas for me it seemed to lead instead to short, dead-end streets. Tony began to feel at home in our new town quite quickly. For me, the experience was quite different, especially when I became a mother. I was twice asked if I was my firstborn's nanny; my sons weren’t invited to playdates (I seem to always have to initiate them) and I had a hard time understanding some social faux pas that even to this day do not make any sense to me.
As I maneuvered the intricacies of my private life, I began to learn in my work sphere more about identity, culture, systems and… white privilege. I would come home and try to reconcile my background with the experiences I was living and the knowledge I was gaining about the lives of native, black, and brown people in this country. I would talk to Tony about the “gifts” and responsibility of his white privilege and about making sure that the boys would connect with their Colombian heritage as much as with their Irish roots (especially growing up in the Boston area with all the parades and green paraphernalia that dominate our city). As an immigrant, he did not naturally see himself as belonging to a dominant culture. Quite the opposite. He saw himself as the "other"--both here and back home, where he experienced rejection, profiling, and fear when growing up. It took many heated conversations, books, and movies for him to own his white privilege and for me to embrace the complexity of his identity. My husband is both privileged and alienated.
And so am I.
Today I am part of the minority in this country, but I am a white privileged woman in my country of origin. If I am being honest, I can navigate the rejections and discomforts of being a Latina in the U.S. with a certain ease. This capacity emanates from having developed my sense of self in privilege and of knowing that I can always “go back home.” However, this ease goes away quite rapidly when I have to help my boys navigate their own identities.
My firstborn Liam’s skin is lighter than my husband’s. He has deep blue/grey eyes and delicious pink cheeks. He is growing to be quite tall. His younger brother Juan has beautiful light olive skin, deep brown eyes, luscious lips, and a compact wiry and agile body. I named both kids before they were born. Liam speaks Spanish. Juan doesn’t. They both self-describe as half-Irish, half-Colombian, and full-American. However, Juan doesn’t like his name. He wants to change it to “John.” When I ask why, he says that it is because he is tired of being called “one” at school. He is tired of the jokes. He is tired of always having to spell his name. Recently, at the start of the heart-wrenching border crisis, Juan was also asked if he was getting deported.
At night, when tucking the boys in bed, is the moment when I can best engage with them. With Liam we talk about white privilege, about his responsibility in the world. With Juan we talk about being proud of who you are, about being resilient. And in the mornings, we all go back to living our privileged lives; fighting over whether we listen to Irish music, salsa, rock, or pop; or about whether rice is better than potatoes. In the morning, we go back to surrendering to the complexity of our identities and embracing our innate paradoxes.
As complicated and at times confusing as our lives can be, I am so grateful for our complexity. It has helped me connect with others with more humility knowing that what I “see” is only part of their story. Our complexity helps me suspend judgement and strive to enter into deep relationships with others, where I can get authentic glimpses of their own complexities.
What is your identity made of? What is your “otherness”?
How has it evolved as you change contexts?
What assumptions about others have you questioned?
“I am made and remade continually. Different people draw different words from me.”
—Virginia Woolf