What does it mean to be Mexican-American? This is a question I am still learning to understand. It is a lifelong journey, a delicate balance between two worlds, two cultures, and two identities that, at times, feel at odds. This article is for every Latina who cherishes her roots yet fears for her future. As I write this, I am listening to Hasta la Raíz by Natalia Lafourcade. If you’re as sentimental as I am, I encourage you to press play and let the music wrap around you like a warm embrace from your abuelita.
I grew up in Laredo, Texas, a border town where cultures blend, languages intertwine, and identities are constantly shaped. Spanish was my first language, and I carry my accent like golden riches. It is the language of my heart, the voice of my ancestors, and the melody of my childhood. But as a child, I often hesitated to share who I was, fearing the judgment that came before understanding. I was “too Mexican” for America, yet “too American” for Mexico. That feeling of being in between, of not fully belonging, lingered like a shadow. I was too tan to bubble in the “white” option when asked my race, yet there was no other choice. My accent marked me wherever I went—more American in Mexico, more Mexican in America. I longed for a place where I truly belonged, where my identity wasn’t questioned or dissected.
Growing up, I struggled with insecurity about my heritage, not because I was ashamed of where I came from, but because I saw how the world perceived it. I watched others easily glide through life, benefiting from the privileges and connections they were born into. Meanwhile, I had to work ten times as hard for just an ounce of recognition. But that struggle forged me into a resilient, hardworking woman, determined to carve out my place in the world.
I was fortunate to grow up in a female-dominated household surrounded by strength, love, and determination. My family was led by two incredible women—my abuela and my mother. My abuela, my best friend, was the backbone of our family. She crossed the border as a child with her two loving parents and six siblings, carrying nothing but hope and resilience. I was always by her side, no matter the time or day. With that, I saw the fear and frustration in her eyes every time she struggled to communicate in English, the way she shrank under the judgment of those who dismissed her simply because she could not speak their language.
So, I became her translator. I learned to navigate two languages, two cultures, and two worlds, not just for myself, but for her as well. I softened her fears, reassured her when she felt small, and gave her a voice when others tried to silence her. The world wanted to make her feel less than, but to me, she was everything. Her sacrifices, her struggles, and her unwavering love shaped me in ways words cannot fully capture.
My mother, too, will always be a force of nature. My mother is and forever will be the heart, lungs, and brains of the family. Many people pitied me for growing up in a single-parent household, but I never saw it as a disadvantage. If anything, it was a blessing in disguise. She raised me in such a beautifully made and loving home that she built from the ground up and, with that, gave me what many people lack: empathy and kindness. My mother carried our culture with pride and made sure I understood the privilege of being both Mexican and American. She taught me that strength is not about how loudly you fight but how deeply you love. She worked tirelessly, not just to provide but to instill in me the confidence to embrace my heritage. Because of her, I walk through life knowing exactly who I am and where I come from.
As I’ve grown, I have come to stand proudly in my identity. Living away from home has allowed me to discover who I am on my terms. It has made me appreciate the beauty of my culture even more—the warmth of our Mexican traditions, the richness of our history, and the resilience of our people. My strength comes from the sacrifices of my parents and the unwavering courage of my grandma, who crossed borders in pursuit of opportunity. Their resilience is my inheritance, and their dreams fuel my pride. How could I not honor that?
For so long, I felt like I had to choose between my Mexican and American identities, as if embracing one meant letting go of the other. But I now realize that I am not half of anything. I am fully Mexican. I am fully American. And I am proud of both. I carry the red, white, and blue of the United States with gratitude, but I also carry the red, white, and green of Mexico with unwavering pride. My culture is not something I need to suppress or dilute to fit into someone else’s mold. It is my strength, my foundation, and my greatest gift.
If you share this experience, know that I see you, I feel you, and I stand with you. You belong. You are meant for greatness. You are living the American dream—a dream our ancestors never got to experience but one we will continue to fight for. When given no other option on government forms that fail to recognize our identity but force us to bubble in an answer, I will never forget I am Mexican before I am American. Not because one is better than the other, but because my roots will always run deep. I will always honor those who came before me, those who sacrificed everything so that I could have the life I do today.
This article is dedicated to my past, present, and future generations. May you never forget where you come from. Thank you to my fiery ancestors, to my abuela, who showed me the meaning of resilience and sacrifice, and to my mother, who taught me how to be proud of who I am. Because of them, I have a voice. A voice I will use to embrace and speak my truth. It is an honor to fight for the very dream they once crossed borders for: the dream of a better future, the American Dream.