Being a White Latina Protects Me From Discrimination — But I'm Not Hiding

With my siblings Tomás and Denise

I was born on a Navy base in Talcahuano, Chile, in 1978. My father worked as a civilian in the Navy, and my mother was a French teacher at the Lycee Francais in Viña del Mar. My mother is first-generation Chilean, the daughter of a German immigrant father and a French and Swiss-German mother. My father is of German and Spanish ancestry further back along the generational line, which is quite typical in Chile. Most Chileans fall into the category of Spanish plus other European background. We lived a normal middle-class life.

In 1983, we moved to Washington, D.C., which wasn't meant to be a permanent move, but it made sense at the time due to Chile's economic crisis. My father felt pressure from his younger brothers, who were already in the US, and a handful of Chilean contacts secured him a job in the Naval Mission. "Just for a few years," my father said, until things pick back up. The move was not something they agreed on; my mother never wanted to leave Chile. Through the years, she anxiously waited for the day we would go back to our "normal life."

When I started school, I quickly realized that I was living in two worlds: one at home, speaking Spanish with parents who did not know English, and the other outside my door, all in English. My skin color said "she's white" or "she's American," but I was among people who did not understand that I didn't understand them. I recall being called "Maria" and not responding; a teacher came to me and asked why I didn't answer. Because I was María José, not María. No one had ever called me María, and it felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else. I tried explaining that mine was a combined name (like Mary Jo in English) but "María" stuck, mostly because it inconvenienced other people. It was too much of an effort. And that was when my American persona was born. At school and in the English-speaking world, María José was incomprehensible to them, so I was just Maria. At home, I was María José. The other half.

Racially, I am white. Not pale or light skinned — I am white. Through my years in the US, I became very aware of other Hispanics and the fact that none of them looked like me. They were darker-skinned with dark hair and spoke differently. The D.C. Metro Area in the 1980s saw an increase in immigration from Central America — mostly El Salvador, Guatemala, and Nicaragua, due to the political instability and civil wars. Being white and speaking Spanish in this setting made my family and I outsiders, again. In Chile, we looked just like the next person. Here, we were gazed at by other Hispanics who wondered where we were from and why we were so white. In the midst of this, we moved back to Chile at the end of 1988.

What should have been the end of our time in "gringolandia" was just the beginning of our story. In the early '90s my father was offered a job in D.C. again, and before I knew it, we were back. This time indefinitely.

In my mostly all-white school, I learned firsthand of discrimination against Latinos, Latinos being called names or treated unfairly. I recall a teacher saying she didn't like having "so many Latinos" in her class because they were all lazy. However, being white was — and is — a shield against open discrimination. Looking at me, no one assumes I'm anything but a white American girl. They hear me speak English without an accent. Even my name ceased to ignite suspicion. Most people assumed I was Italian-American or just didn't care. Why? Because I am white and I speak English. Done. End of story.

However, I never hid behind that. Anytime I could, I'd say "I'm Chilean," and we never stopped speaking Spanish at home. But I thought the word "Hispanic" or "Latino" didn't apply to me, because I grew up thinking that was only for Central Americans or those with darker skin. Living in my own country, I didn't feel like part of a larger group — I was just Chilean. I learned to use the word Latina only in the past few years. Growing up, the word had a different meaning, because I'd only heard it used only in a derogatory way. Through the years, the meaning evolved into something more positive: being part of a group where we share the same language and, to varying degrees, customs and food. At times I still struggle, because the definition of "Latino" is open to interpretation. Many friends and family do not consider themselves Latino and mark "other" on forms asking your heritage.

My children, who are practically see-through, will most likely never be discriminated against for being half Chilean. They speak Spanish, but their white skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes insulate them. However, my other Latina friends, whose children are half-white American and half Hispanic and whose skin is darker, have faced and do face more discrimination.

My kids, Lucía, Matías and Elisa

Every time someone comments on my looks, I use it as an opportunity to educate others. I am not exaggerating when I say that people stop and stare when they hear us speaking Spanish, both Americans and other Hispanics. On one occasion we were followed — yes, followed — at the supermarket because a man just "couldn't believe his eyes" (his exact words) when he heard us speaking Spanish. After hovering for a while, he made his way over and pretended to squeeze a tomato and said "I'm just wondering what language you all are speaking?" Playing along and preparing my big surprise, I smiled and said "Spanish! Do you speak it too?"

It took him a few seconds to take it in, standing there staring at me and my kids, then he said: "I've never heard white people speak Spanish — I took Spanish in high school and it didn't sound like that! Sounds so elegant." I just smiled and said, "Well, white people live in Latin America too," and I left it at that. Walking away, I realized that our being white made the language sound "elegant" to him. As sad as it is, I believe race plays a major role in how people perceive certain countries and what languages we hold in high regard.

I don't expect anyone to assume I'm Latina at first glance. If I saw me, I wouldn't think I'm Latina either. But — and this is where education is needed — I do respect when someone tells me what nationality they are, even if I didn't think so. What I won't and don't accept or put up with is being undermined, questioned, and asked to prove when I say I am Chilean and hearing ridiculous comments such as "No you are not!" "Speak some Spanish!" "For real, you white tho'" "Oh, you're not brown at all" "Oh but you are super pretty." All things that have been said to me.

It's fine if you don't think someone is whatever they say they are, but accept the answer when someone tells you their race, nationally, or ethnicity. That is the biggest insult and show of ignorance.

But even I fall into the trap. Often, when I am out at a store or a restaurant, if I know someone speaks Spanish, I speak Spanish to them. How do I know to do so? By the color of their skin, their appearances, and even what neighborhood I'm in. I know! Exactly what I said we shouldn't do.

The very few times I have spoken English to people who I know are Hispanic, I have felt deceitful — as if I'm trying to hide from them by not letting them know that I too, a white woman, am Hispanic. Now the question I get from my 8-year-old son is: How do you know when someone speaks Spanish? My response is always, "Because I heard them!" or "Remember, anyone can speak Spanish!" But I will not tell him that you can tell by looking at someone's skin color. Why? Because there will be a million other times when that won't be relevant. The next generation of Hispanic-Americans will vary in skin colors and Spanish-speaking abilities. I am teaching him to be an instrument of knowledge and education about what it is to look and be Hispanic in today's America.