Essays:

Entre dos mundos, una misma voz

By: Gabby Castellanos

“Gabby, you should be Mulan!” That’s what I always heard while playing princess dress up, at princess-themed birthday parties, and every Halloween. As a child, I never quite understood why she was always predetermined for me, or why she seemed like the only option that made perfect sense to others. I’m not complaining; she is this courageous Chinese warrior who defied expectations and saved the entire nation of China, resembling one of the most empowering figures in children’s stories. While Mulan joined the army to protect her father, I’ve never had to wield a sword, though I would also take risks for those I care about. However, I realized the comparison with Mulan, unfortunately, wasn’t about my personality. They formed that impression solely based on my appearance and the physical traits we share, assuming we have the same background. The irony is that I am not at all Chinese, but rather Colombian American. Everyone always seems to be playing a guessing game of who I surrounded by straightforward ones. My identity does not fit neatly into simple categories like others may, and I have never fully grasped why it is so difficult for others to see me beyond such labels. Growing up in the US, I’ve come to value putting others before myself and trying to fulfill the “treat others how you want to be treated” lifestyle. I’ve adapted to US norms like

punctuality, often arriving at the “American” ten minutes early. Almost all my friends are part of the 70% white majority that makes up my school, so I find myself adapting to their cultural habits and expectations.

But at home with family, my Colombian identity is just as present. Spanish is my first language, and I refuse to listen to music in English. I take part in traditional celebrations, enjoy Colombian arepas and bandejas paisas daily, and visit my family in Bogotá thrice a year. In these environments, I feel authentically myself and embrace those parts of me. Still, I worry that other people will assign me the negative stereotypes often assigned to

Hispanics, such as being uneducated or lazy. I have worked to be known as one of the most hardworking students in my class, which is often why people are surprised to learn my origin. Other Hispanic people see me as di erent from them for having a 4.0, while non- Hispanic people act equally surprised for the opposite reason.

It feels like everyone around me has a clear sense of who they are and can read one another accurately, yet I remain di icult to pinpoint, making me doubt whether I am truly American or Colombian enough. And yet, when I was asked that same question, I never knew how to respond. I would sit in a sti plastic chair under sterile white lights, my fingers numb from the too-cold air conditioning that hummed quietly through the silence, filling out the introductory survey during standardized tests. I would always pause at the dreaded question, “Are you of Hispanic/Latinx origin?” My pen would hover hesitantly between “yes”

and “no,” swaying back and forth.

If I chose “yes,” I imagined someone assuming I spoke broken English, or thinking I had only made it into advanced classes because of a quota. But I also thought of my first language, Spanish, echoing from the kitchen as my mom played salsa while cooking empanadas. I thought of the Novena gatherings at Christmas and the smell of buñuelos, and these memories made me feel like I had a place and a home. If I picked “no,” I feared erasing those parts of me, the ones that know how to sing to Shakira without thinking and call my grandparents “Abuelita” and “Abuelito.” But truthfully, I do enjoy fast food drive-thrus and expansive department stores where you can find wooden signs that say “Live, Laugh, Love.” So yes, among others, there are things I enjoy about being American. Neither answer is right; my skin is fair, but my accent, nonexistent. I am Colombian and American. Yet, in many situations, I feel like one, both, or neither at all. I used to believe I wasn’t “Hispanic enough” because I didn’t follow the path others assumed I would. The uncertainty made me want to belong somewhere, anywhere. I began adapting, molding myself to fit whichever of the two communities the moment called for. I learned the values, behaviors, and beliefs expected of me, just to blend in.

For a while, this felt like the only way to survive the ambiguity. At school, I laughed at jokes I didn’t fully relate to and nodded along when American friends talked about family customs that didn’t resemble mine. I never corrected people when they mispronounced my last name either. On social media, I’d tap the like button on silly videos describing the “POV” of typical Hispanic households, though mine was nothing alike. I would mirror what people expected of me, editing parts of myself depending on where I was, hoping no one would notice the mismatch. However, beneath the surface, I couldn’t fully recognize who I was. Not long ago, my table group in class held a conversation to get to know each other a little more personally. Someone suggested we guess each other’s backgrounds, and my chest tightened before it was even my turn. I braced myself, already running through the usual possibilities in my head—China, the Philippines, maybe even India—somewhere totally unrelated to who I actually am. I waited for the familiar sting of being misplaced, of having to force a grin and explain again. But then she looked at me and said, “Are you Puerto Rican?” I exhaled, surprised to feel a genuine smile forming. It was the first time I was delighted at a guess. Of course, I am not of that descent, but I am Latina. For the first time, it felt like someone saw me as who I was and that I was where I was supposed to be. However, I always thought that being seen as who I was by others would solve all the identity problems I had faced, but instead, it made me realize that other people’s

perception of me doesn’t change who I am, I’m just myself.

For a long time, I thought the goal was to shape myself to adhere to one category, but not necessarily. The hardest part, though, was how acting unauthentically forced me to explain myself in the first place. If identity were a puzzle for others to solve, I was giving them the wrong pieces. But this all made me realize that identity is something I simply live. My culture is part of me, yes, in the food I eat, the language I speak, and the values I hold, but it’s never been the only thing. I’ve come to understand that the discomfort wasn’t just about choosing between “American” or “Colombian,” but about having to justify how both could exist in me without conflict. And maybe the real answer is that they just do. I honor the duality of my Colombian and American roots, picking what speaks to me from each, and in doing so, creating my authentic sense of self. My individuality is shaped by the diverse traits and experiences that reflect my background. There is a sense of freedom in knowing I can be accepted simply by being me, even if that acceptance looks different depending on where I am or who I’m with. To my family in Colombia, I am often seen as too American. To my school friends, I am unmistakably Colombian. Others still assume I’m that female Chinese warrior, but who would I be to fight that? These misperceptions no longer unsettle me. I have realized that being misunderstood does not mean being

unknown. I have grown to love the complexity of my cultural morals, beliefs, and behaviors, something uniquely mine. It is common for many to mislabel me, but I no longer believe that defines or diminishes who I truly am. I no longer shrink myself to fit expectations, but instead, I stand fully in who I am, unshaken and whole.

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