05 May Not Mexican Enough, Not American Enough — ‘I Am Both’

In honor of Cinco de Mayo, a young woman explores her Mexican American identity. (Malcolm Marshall / The CC Pulse)

Commentary, Nayeli Hernandez

It has been about seven years since I graduated from high school, but reflecting on what it means to be Mexican American immediately takes me back to my teenage self. Back then, I didn’t understand the weight of the culture I carried. 

I was raised in Hercules, where I spent my early years in elementary and middle school identifying simply as a Mexican American. My mom was born in the United States; my dad, in Guatemala, and my grandmother came from Mexico, the root of where my family began. As a kid, identity felt simple. It wasn’t until later that it became complicated. 

That shift came when people started telling me who I was based on how I looked and how I carried myself and how that fit their standard of being either Mexican or American. Their perception didn’t always match my reality.

When I moved to Richmond for high school, I felt the shift even more. Surrounded by students from Hispanic backgrounds, I expected to feel a sense of belonging. Instead, I felt more out of place than ever. I was “too white-washed” to be Mexican yet “too Mexican” to be American. People judged the way I spoke, even though I was fluent in Spanish. There never seemed to be a space where I could exist as both.

A lot of my classmates were first-generation Mexican Americans. They grew up with immigrant parents, and although we shared some similarities in our experience and upbringing, it was never fully the same. I didn’t need to translate a paper from school to my mom, though I would help my grandma pronounce words in English correctly. I didn’t have the same pressure to excel in school as they did, but there was still an expectation that I had to make it to college. Those small differences created a distance I didn’t know how to bridge. 

And at some point, I was embarrassed by my identity. Because I felt so disconnected from my culture, I didn’t feel like I had the right to claim it. Even my own family considered me a “no sabo.” Yet I grew up in a home filled with the aromas of fragrant spices and having mole for dinner one night, pozole the next. Being woken up to loud Mexican music being played from the living room TV signaled it was time to deep-clean the house. But I still wasn’t Mexican enough for them, and I wasn’t American enough for my peers. 

I didn’t practice every tradition, but every Christmas, I would wrap tamales with my grandma. She would share stories about her upbringing in Mexico and my great-grandmother’s experience coming to the United States. 

I began to understand the courage it took to leave everything behind and start over. To imagine the challenge of learning a new language just by watching movies and listening to music. No, I didn’t have to go through that, but those conversations shaped me to be bold and strong. To be able to endure hardship, having these women who have endured worse in my heart. And to hope for something greater for my life despite the sacrifice it may take.

I didn’t grow up knowing what cascarones were, but I remember the joy of finding baby Jesus in the Rosca de Reyes. As small as these moments may seem, they are a greater piece of proof that my connection to the culture has always been there. 

What people often misunderstand about Mexican American identity is that it doesn’t look just one way. It’s not defined by language fluency, how many traditions are practiced, or how “authentic” someone appears. Our roots are deeper than that. Somewhere down the line, someone in our family made the choice to come to this country, carrying their culture with them and passing it on in whatever ways they could.

Over time, I’ve learned that I don’t have to choose between being American and Mexican. I am both. And just because I was raised in America, it doesn’t take away or devalue my love for my culture, my passion for the people, and my identity. I hear it in the music that I now put on weekend mornings to clean. I feel it in the kitchen, standing beside my grandma, as she’s teaching me to cook traditional meals. 

My identity was never something I had to earn or prove; it was something that was always mine.