When Spanish Is Not Enough

David Farragut was Hispanic, at least according to the National Hispanic Heritage website. That’s right–the decorated American admiral with a French last name had a father who was born in Minorca. Never mind that the father himself had been a renowned American admiral who had Anglicized his name from “Jordi” to “George.”

If it were only that simple now. As we find ourselves in another Hispanic Heritage Month (which runs from September 15 to October 15), it’s as if the standard for being “Hispanic” has changed. In an attempt to weed out the impostors, we have come up with the term “Latino” and its subsequent modifiers, all in an attempt at creating some sort of purer identity.

That is why I own a ridiculously ugly hat that prominently features a Dominican flag. The words “REP. DOMINICANA” are misguidedly, awkwardly emblazoned in a vertical line running from the tip to the edge of the brim.

There was a time when I felt compelled to wear the stupid thing. The reason was simple: it was the only external sign of my nationality. So I would perch it awkwardly on top of my head, desperately hoping that people walking by would notice that, yes, I was Dominican, not just another white kid.

It is interesting to watch how people come to identify with a racial or national identity. This is especially true during those sacred college years–the time when you are supposed to discover who you really are. We are more naturally attracted to groups that promise shared experiences. These experiences don’t have to be meaningful–it’s the reason why I immediately feel a bond with people who know what it is like to taste a good mangú.

At the same time, however, I often find myself looking down at people who don’t pass my Latino snuff test.  In turn, I find myself being subjected to the same standard, with fellow Latinos questioning everything from the color of my skin to my taste in music. Some things you can change, others, not so much.

This is not only true of Latinos. Every racial group has a certain way of acting. And if you don’t speak the right way, do the right things, stand up for the right causes, then you don’t qualify as being “[insert racial identity here]” enough. The further we get away from our “origins,” the more we tend to idealize them. The more abstract this idea becomes, the more we search out real, tangible things or causes that will set us apart.

The problem is not with people identifying as part of a specific race. The problem is that oftentimes being part of a group means that you pledge your allegiance to a predetermined sense of identity. It is for this reason that racial causes fail in their attempt at creating a real community. Rather, what they provide is an artificial barrier to forming a healthy sense of community with people who are not like us.

Current attempts at defining race are sorely, sadly misguided. It seems like we often try to hide behind our skin color or where our parents grew up instead of actually trying to accomplish something independent of that. There is no denying that race is an important component of identity. As a matter of fact, I am still incredibly proud of the fact that I am Dominican. But that search for identity is rooted in something that is, by nature, deeply selfish: A validation that I belong somewhere.

I am not suggesting that we stop taking pride in our heritage. But heritage is not one amorphous mass that involves the experience of people like me. I am not like other Hispanics or Latinos. I am not like other Dominicans. I am not like other members of the Fernández family. And that’s fine–because my concern should not be to spend my time with people who are like me. It should be to use my set of experiences to contribute to a world that is drastically different from mine.

Looking back, I find myself laughing at my attempts to prove my Dominican-ness.  For instance, my attempts to speak street-savvy Spanglish led to bewildered, puzzled reactions from my family. My hat, although still valuable to me, now sits on top of a bookshelf, at a safe distance from the top of my head.

Whether people selectively play up their race or are engaged fully with their roots, they are playing up one part of who they are. Since our kindergarten years, we have been taught that people are more than their racial identity. After all, we don’t celebrate David Farragut because he was keenly aware of his Hispanic roots. As a matter of fact, he probably didn’t care.

Al Fernandez ’17 lives in Eliot House. His column appears on alternate Thursdays.