Tengo Mucho Que Decir

ISABEL SAAVEDRA-WEIS

Mama tells me that when I started to babble as a child, my words took form in both Spanish and English, interchangeably, unaware that there was a difference. In the photo albums she curated of my childhood, there are photos of me decked out in feather boas, silk rebozos, sparkly dresses, and Mexican folkloric dance skirts that expanded into full circles when I spun. In calendars she saved from my early childhood, the squares are filled with details about my daily life as a toddler: grocery shopping at Trader Joes and El Burrito Mercado, watching Sesame Street, and its Spanish equivalent Plaza Sesamo, visiting family and friends in two different countries, celebrating my birthday with an Elmo-themed cake and a piñata, writing a letter to the three kings on Día de Los Reyes and Santa on Christmas. My bedside bookshelf was filled with the classics: Blanca Nieves, Cinderella, Ricitos de Oro y los Tres Osos, and The Tale of Peter Rabbit. And as far as nursery rhymes go, I knew all about how Little Bo Peep lost her sheep, and how el patio de mi casa es particular. I’ve recently been thinking about all these memories a lot, fascinated with the life I led before I knew what “biracial” meant and before I realized that it meant to be “me”. Looking back, it looks so smooth, natural, peaceful. There was a time I didn’t overthink my right to be in a space, or code switch, or try to filter or separate myself.

There was no day or moment that changed everything. It was all very gradual. I could speak more Spanish than most kids in my elementary school class. I was faintly aware that my papi took tests and swore oaths to this country. I realized that other kids weren’t fighting their parents on eating their slimy, green calabacitas. But in all honesty, I liked that these things made me unique.

Like the Jewish boy whose mom came in to teach us about Hanukkah, or the girl who spent a year in Tanzania on a mission trip with her parents, I too had a claim to fame: I am part Mexican!

There was a time I didn’t overthink my right to be in a space, or code switch, or try to filter or separate myself.

However, racial tensions eventually infiltrated my cocoon, too. Headlines about immigration on the radio, viral videos of people yelling “go back to your country; we speak English here”. Stereotypes on the screen of women with full hips, throaty accents, fiery tempers. Questionnaires that ask me to define my race and ethnicity by checking one box, causing me to look at my sister in confusion, her reply being: “I don’t know, I was going to ask you.”

It became apparent to me that there was a whole system already in place outside my sheltered upbringing that took two major parts of my identity, parts which had coexisted quite peacefully in my home, and pitted them against each other.

We live in a world with racial divides so deep that we can’t seem to find materials stable enough to cross them. There is no handbook for those who literally embody those tensions, but I looked for one feverishly. It’s very strange to be the oppressed and oppressor, the conquistador and the conquered, the minority and majority. I often searched for validation in the way my skin tanned in the summer, in tired, harmful stereotypes that I shamefully tried so hard to match, in the approval of people who I believed to be more authentic than I was.

I’ve written drafts and snippets of what I thought my speech should be about for a few years now, and while the topic was always the same, the tone differed. I read them all back in preparation for today. Some of the early ones make me wince. They are full of confusion, bitterness and an ache for clarity.

But, funnily enough, in my desperate want for a handbook on How To Be Biracial, I subconsciously wrote one. Granted, the first few chapters are a little messy, hardened, and sad, but necessary nonetheless.

I’ve done a lot of writing since. My “Owner’s Manual of Identity” is constantly under revision. I make conclusions, have a new experience that throws me, reaffirm myself, and write something new. So far, my handbook is both a revolution and a revelation. It’s about the people who are the exception to the rule, the people that check the box marked “other”, the people that worry about the space that they take up, the people that confuse others because traditional labels and ideas don’t fit them properly. It’s about the people that feel like human embodiments of tensions they didn’t create, while also being the physical proof that those tensions don’t always have to exist.

This speech, I suppose, is another installment of my handbook, a book that will never be finished, or complete, one that will be covered in eraser marks and margin notes. But if I had to write the last chapter of my handbook today, this would be the conclusion: My identity, like that of many others, is fluid. It changes constantly, sometimes by my choice, but mostly dependent on what room, country, or society I’m in, which is both exhilarating and terrifying all at once. In reading my old versions of this speech, I wish I could reach through the pages and grab the younger me by the hand to reassure her that while it’s not always easy to grapple with the fluidity, it does get easier. I’d tell her she will learn to lean into the constant shifting of her identity, and will appreciate its tendency to be a good conversation starter. I’d tell her the people she really wanted approval from never needed her to prove anything at all. I’d tell her that her intersectionality will help her understand and accept the intersectionality of others, which is a beautiful gift.

I won’t lie, though. There are still moments when I feel lost, or like I’m not enough, or so tired of the pressure to check just one box. But for every one of those moments, I have people in my life who will send me slam poetry about being biracial, who look me dead in the eyes and make me swear never to let someone tell me what I am and what I’m not, and who will enthusiastically grab my hand when I want to teach them to latin dance.

I have mama, who teaches me how to bridge gaps with grace, humility and respect. I have papi, who shows me that one can be proud without being territorial. And I have Pilar, who makes me feel understood even when I’m convinced no one would get it. I have found love that has no regard for boundaries, borders or bullies, and I have found this love in harmonious parallels, moments so natural to me that I forget how symbolic they are: Switching back and forth between the English and Spanish keyboards on family group chats. Growing up with a cat named Pancho and a dog named Prince Harry. Feeling nostalgic from the smells of rhubarb pie and sweet Mexican bread. Watching my mom chat up a Puerto Rican taxi driver in Spanish, and my dad give medical presentations to American doctors in English. Being raised in a house that blared Prince, Ricky Martin, U2, Shakira, Sting, and Maná — all artists my parents insisted were vital to my musical education. Y aveces, two languages getting tangled up, los dos coming out of my mouth at once, tengo mucho que decir, I have too much to say.

When I feel the pressure to split myself into two, I tend to look down at my hands, which are connected to my arms, which are connected to the same body, same mind, same heart. I’m a whole person. A person with more questions than answers, more words than space in her head, more support and good fortune than she probably deserves.

I refuse to believe that people like me must divide themselves like a fraction, because as far as I’m concerned, I am not meant to dissect, split, or isolate myself while living such a full life.

In 1993, Dr. Maria Root wrote a Bill of Rights for People of Mixed Heritage. I saw it for the first time last year, on the wall of a teacher’s office. A copy now hangs on my closet door. It reminds me daily that I have the right… “not to keep my races separate within me,” “to identify differently in different situations,” and “to change my identity over my lifetime.” One of my favorites reads: “I have the right to create a vocabulary to communicate about being multiracial or multiethnic.” As someone who finds refuge, empowerment, and great comfort in words, that statement spoke volumes to me. Writing about my biracial life and all its confusing, emotional, and love-filled components has fulfilled me in a way no other form of validation has. In writing about my own existence, I am creating a narrative for myself, and perhaps even others like me.

So, finally, to all the people here today who wish that their identity had come with a handbook: write your own.

Delicate QUINN CHRISTENSEN

NORA POVEJSIL Heartbreakers Skip Breakfast

Heartbreakers skip breakfast, exchange Lucky Charms for matching tattoos on lovers’ arms, whisper reckless promises, then gift away their mother’s locket, slide it in my pocket.

At first glance, they’re glittering, they gleam, they’re brand new, like the cars that they drive and the things they show you.

Seas in their eyes, a breeze in their hair, they say you’re one in a million, and throw the dice without care.

And like cash bound by rubber bands changing hands, icy lips touch, shooting shocks and sparks in all directions.

But bonfires soon fade to crackling blues on vinyl.

The rosy cheeks and peach lollipops on the chilly beach transformed all too quickly into changed locks and a box labeled “memories.”

All at once, that sucker punch, gut-wrenching, but bound to be, proved that heartbreakers eat lunch at ten thirty.

Mossy Rocks