Neither Here Nor There: A Mexican-American Story

By Josie Ramos / Fall 2024

The first time I acted as a translator for my parents, I realized my childhood was going to look very different from my friends. I didn’t think much about it at first. Translating for my parents at parent-teacher conferences just felt like something I had to do. At 7 years old, I wasn’t just a student anymore; I was a bridge between two worlds, carrying the weight of expectations that neither my teachers nor my classmates could understand. As a Mexican- American, I’ve spent my life walking on a tightrope, balancing the language, traditions and values of my heritage with the reality of growing up in a country that never quite felt like home. Having to translate for my parents seemed normal at first, but over time, I began to notice how much responsibility I carried, how different I was from my peers, and how deeply this difference shaped me.

In many ways, my experiences were shaped by systemic barriers; education systems that didn't accommodate immigrant families, social hierarchies that kept us at the margins, and the expectations of cultural assimilation that pushed me to exist in multiple worlds simultaneously. The systemic forces didn't shape my family's interactions with the world; they shaped my identity and sense of belonging. What seemed like a normal part of my life was actually a series of conditions of possibility, where I learned that being both Mexican and American would involve navigating the complexities of two cultures and expectations imposed by both.

From moments in school where I struggled to keep up with expectations to a trip to Mexico that made me question where I truly belong, these experiences have shaped my understanding of identity. They've shown me that my story is not just about fitting into one culture or the other but about navigating the space between. This essay explores those moments, weaving together personal experiences and systemic dimensions to reveal the complexity of growing up between two worlds and the struggles of trying to belong in both.

School was where I first felt the weight of being “different”. Homework, which should have been a routine part of my childhood, often became a source of stress and sadness. My parents, despite their constant support and encouragement, couldn’t always help. The language barrier stood between us, and concepts like simple fractions and grammar rules didn’t translate easily. In those moments, I would turn to my older sister, who became my lifeline.

I still remember one night in 4th grade when I was struggling to finish a math assignment. The numbers blurred on the page as I fought back tears of frustration. My sister sat besides me on the dinner table with her textbooks and notes scattered across the table as she worked on her own homework. I hesitated to ask for help, knowing how much she already had on her plate, but I didn’t have anyone else to really turn to at the moment. She glanced at me and sighed setting aside her work to help me understand my homework. Her explanations made sense and I felt an instant wave of relief; but the relief came with guilt. I knew that every minute she spent helping me was a minute she wasn't spending on her own studies. I would watch her rub her eyes, with clear exhaustion on her face, and wonder if I was holding her back. Moments like this made me aware of how much responsibility we shared as the children of immigrants; not just for ourselves, but for each other, and for our whole family as a whole.

Looking back, I realize those struggles weren’t just about math homework. They were about navigating a system that wasn't built for families like mine, where the expectation was that parents would guide their children through school. For my parents, the barriers of language and unfamiliarity with the American education system meant that role often fell to me and my sister. These experiences taught me resilience and resourcefulness, but they also left me feeling isolated, like I was playing a game with rules no one had fully explained.

My first trip to Mexico in 2022 was supposed to feel like a homecoming. I had spent years hearing my parents describe their childhoods, the streets they grew up on, the food they ate and the traditions they cherished. I thought I would feel connected to my roots, surrounded by people who shared my culture. But instead, it became another moment that reminded me I didn’t fully belong anywhere. One memory from that trip still lingers in my mind from time to time. My family and I were walking through a bustling market, surrounded by rows of colorful stands overflowing with meat, cheese and even grasshoppers. Sellers shouted over each other, advertising their goods. As we walked through the produce section, one woman at a stand locked eyes with me. Her expression wasn’t particularly welcoming, and I felt self-conscious under her gaze. “Mira! Nopales por cincuenta pesos, guera!” she yelled.

The world stopped me in my tracks. Guera. White girl. At first, I wasn’t sure I had heard her correctly, so I turned to my mom and asked her what she meant. My mom shrugged and said, “It’s what they call lighter-skinned girls. It’s not really an insult.” But to me, it felt like one. At that moment, I wasn’t Mexican enough; not in the way I looked, not in the way I spoke, not in the way I carried myself. That incident brought back memories of middle school, when I had felt like the opposite; one of the darkest kids in my class. Most of my friends were white, and even the Hispanic ones had light enough skin that they could easily pass for white. I always felt like the odd one out, but I learned to push those feelings aside to fit in. Yet here I was, standing in the middle of a Mexican market, being told I was the whitest one. I couldn't escape the labels, no matter where I went.

That trip to Mexico made me realize how deeply ingrained those labels were not just in how others saw me but in how I saw myself. No matter how much I wanted to feel at home in Mexico, moments like that reminded me that my identity would always be questioned. I wasn’t fully Mexican to them, just like I was never fully American to my classmates or teachers.

If there’s one unspoken rule about being Mexican-American, it’s that you’re expected to speak spanish; and to speak it well. Anything less, and you’re immediately seen as less authentic, less connected to your roots. Growing up, I spoke Spanish at home with my parents, but it was always conversational. When it came to grammar or advanced vocabulary, I often stumbled, mixing English words into my sentences without even realizing it. I knew enough to get by, but not enough to avoid the occasional judgement from family members.

The shame that came with not speaking perfect Spanish followed me everywhere. I remember once at a family gathering, one of my relatives made a comment after I mispronounced a word. “Y esta nina? No sabe hablar bien español?” The adults around me laughed it off, but I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. Those moments always left me feeling like I was failing at something that should have come naturally. This pressure wasn’t just limited to family gathering. Even among other Mexican-Americans, I felt a subtle competition over who was “more Mexican.” Those who could speak Spanish fluently, or better yet, switch effortlessly between English and Spanish; always seemed to carry an air of authenticity that I couldn’t match. At the same time, I knew plenty of peers who didn’t speak Spanish at all and were shamed evermore harshly for it. They were called pochos, a term used to describe Mexican-Americans who have lost their cultural ties, and it served as a constant reminder of how easily we could be judged for falling short of cultural expectations.

What made this pressure even harder to bear was the feeling that I couldn’t win. I wasn’t American enough in school, where speaking Spanish set me apart, and I wasn’t Mexican enough in cultural spaces, where my Spanish wasn’t perfect. It was an impossible balancing act, and every slip, every mistake, felt like further proof that I didn’t belong fully to either world.

Growing up as the child of immigrants, I saw firsthand how much harder my parents had to work just to keep up. Their sacrifices were the foundation of everything my siblings and I had, but those sacrifices came with struggles that extended far beyond our household. My parents were constantly navigating a system that wasn't built for people like them; a system where not knowing the language or the rules made everyday tasks feel like mountains to climb.

I remember one instance that stuck with me. My dad had received a letter in the mail, something about renewing a document. It was filled with technical jargon and legal terms, all in English. He handed it to me, his expression a mix of worry and expectation. “Qué dice esto, mija?” he asked me. I was in middle school at the time, and while my English was fluent, I didn't understand half of what the letter meant. I tried my best to piece it together, translating as I went along, but I could tell he was still unsure. That moment, like so many others, made me acutely aware of the barriers my parents faced. It wasn't just about the language, it was about the unspoken rule of how things worked in America. Whether it was dealing with school administrators, government agencies, or even something as simple as signing up for utilities, they relied on me and my siblings to bridge the gap.

This constant responsibility shaped me in a way I didn't fully understand until I was older. While my classmates' parents were able to advocate for them at school or guide them through homework, I often found myself doing the opposite; advocating for my parents or helping them navigate a system I was barely beginning to understand myself. It gave me a sense of resilience and independence, but it also left me feeling isolated, as if I was living in a world that demanded too much too soon.

Looking back, I see how these experiences contributed to my struggle with belonging. In school, I felt different because of the responsibilities I carried at home. At home, I felt the weight of  trying to protect my family from a system that often felt hostile or inaccessible. There was no escaping the feeling of being caught in the middle, always navigating, always translating; both literally and figuratively.

As I've gotten older, I realized that my experiences aren't unique; they are a part of a longer pattern faced by so many first-generation kids trying to navigate life between two cultures. The struggles my family faced, the expectations placed on me, and the moments of disconnection I felt are all tied to systemic issues that go beyond individual families. Immigrant parents often work tirelessly to give their children better opportunities, but the systems in place;  education, healthcare, government, are rarely designed to accommodate their needs.

In school, for example, the assumption was always that parents could be actively involved in their children's education. Teachers expected parents to attend conferences, help with homework, and stay informed about school policies. But for families like mine, where language barriers and long work hours were the norm, these expectations felt impossible to meet. The system wasn't built with us in mind, and it often left me feeling like I had to choose between being a good student and being a good daughter.

This tension extended into cultural spaces as well. The labels I carried, whether it was guera in Mexico or not Mexican enough among my peers in the U.S;  reflect the rigid boundaries society places on identity. These boundaries don’t leave room for complexity or duality. You’re expected to fit neatly into one category or the other, and if you don't, you’re constantly questioned, judged, or dismissed. Even the pressure to speak fluently stems from a deeper systemic issue: the erasure of cultural identities in the pursuit of assimilation. For many immigrant families, learning English is a matter of survival, but the trade-off is often a gradual  loss of their native language. This creates a painful paradox; you’re criticized for not being fluent in Spanish, even as society pressures you to prioritize English to succeed. The systemic pressures create a cycle that's hard to break. For families like mine, survival often takes precedence over cultural preservation or individual growth. For children like me, the weight of those pressures is constant, shaping how we see ourselves and our place in the world.

Navigating the space between two cultures has shaped my understanding of identity in ways I never expected. For a long time, I saw my differences as something to overcome; a challenge to manage, a flaw to be hidden. I worked hard to fit in, to adapt to the expectations of whatever environment I was in. In school, I tried to match my classmates' norms, laughing along with jokes I didn't understand and downplaying the responsibilities I carried at home. In cultural spaces I tried to prove my authenticity, speaking Spanish when I could and quietly absorbing criticism when I couldn't. But over time, I began to realize that my identity wasn't something to “fix.” It was something to embrace, even when it felt messy or incomplete. The moments that once made me feel out of place, the guera comment in Mexico, the struggle to translate legal documents for my dad, the guilt of relying on my sister; now feel like part of a longer narrative. They’re not just isolated incidents; they’re evidence of a deeper strength, a resilience that comes from navigating spaces where you’re constantly asked to adapt.

That resilience has given me a unique perspective on belonging. I've come to see that belonging doesn't have to mean fitting neatly into one category or the other. It can mean finding comfort in the in-between, in the spaces where cultures overlap and identities blur. It can mean creating your own definition of what it means to be Mexican- American, one that honors both where you come from and where you’re going. This understanding didn't come easily. It took years of reflection, a feeling like I wasn't enough, to realize that very things I once saw as weaknesses were actually sources of strength. Translating for my parents taught me patience and problem-solving. Struggling with Spanish taught me the value of persistence and humility. Facing judgment from both sides of my identity taught me empathy; for myself and for others who feel like they don't belong.

These experiences have taught me that identity isn't something that can be easily defined or confined to a single narrative. For so long, I thought I had to choose to be more American in certain spaces or more Mexican in others. But I've learned that identity is not about conforming to someone else's expectations; it's about honoring the parts of yourself that make you whole.  Being caught between two cultures has given me deeper appreciation for nuance. It’s taught me that the questions of “ Who am I?” and “Where do I belong?” don't always have simple answers and that's okay. I've come to see my identity as fluid, something that shifts and grows as I do. I am Mexican in the traditions I've inherited from my parents, in the Spanish phrases that felt like home and in the resilience I've built from their sacrifices. I am American in the opportunities I pursued, in the education I fought for and the ways I've learned to navigate a system that wasn't built for me.

Perhaps the most important lesson I've learned is that my identity isn't just about me; it's also about the connections I build with others. Whether it's helping my parents navigate a difficult system, supporting my siblings as they face similar struggles, or finding community with others who share my experiences, my identity is deeply intertwined with the people I care about. These lessons have shaped not just how I see myself, but also how I see the world. They've  inspired me to challenge the systems and stereotypes that make others feel like they don't belong. They've motivated me to embrace complexity in all its forms and to advocate for spaces where everyone's story can be seen and valued.

Looking back, I can see how each experience, no matter how difficult or isolating it felt at that time, has shaped who I am today. From translating documents for my parents to navigating the expectations of two cultures, these moments taught me resilience, adaptability, and the value of standing in the in-between. What once felt like a source of shame now feels like a source of strength, a reminder that belonging isn't something you find, it's something you create.

Being both Mexican and American has taught me to embrace complexity. I've learned that my identity doesn't need to fit neatly into one box or the other. It's not defined by whether I speak Spanish or know every tradition; it's defined by the connections I make, the values I carry, and the way I move through the world. This understanding has also given me a greater sense of purpose. I want to create spaces where stories like mine are not just told but celebrated, spaces where people are free to be their full, complicated selves without fear of judgment or exclusion. Whether it's through my studies, my future career, or the way I show up for my community, I carry these lessons with me, determined to make a difference.

Ultimately my story isn't just about me. It's about the millions of others who are navigating similar struggles, balancing similar dualities, and searching for a sense of belonging in a world that often asks us to choose. By sharing my experiences, I hope to remind others and myself that we don't have to choose. We can exist in the overlap, finding strength in the complexity and beauty in the in-between.