Two times a year. Even though I only got to see you two times every year, you somehow managed to glue inspiration into me. I remember putting on the best performances of my life in front of you, my feet arching into the perfect point, showing you every ballet move I had learned since we saw each other last. The language barrier made things challenging but my love for Spanish was sparked because of it, I would point to all the colors and proudly state the Spanish name grasping for recognition of my growth, I wonder if you would be proud of me now, If you were still here I could talk to you without any sort of interpretation.
It was the time of year when the snow had just vanished and the sun was starting to warm up. My mom and dad brought my sister and I to a local coffee shop, grabbed some hot chocolate, sat us down on the outdoor patio and explained to us what had happened that the cancer invaded your lungs and defeated you in the battle, that you were now looking over us from the clouds. My instant reaction was not grief or sadness but that of worry. “Does that mean we aren’t Mexican anymore” I asked my mom. My eight year old self never experienced death before so how would I know how it would work. My mom tried to hold back her laughter and made me rethink my whole life, my whole identity when she answered, “Honey, you were never Mexican, Papa is your dad’s stepdad meaning that they do not share blood”. My mind began to race, my whole life I would proudly tell my teachers, my friends, my peers that I was something I was not. It made sense to me, my dad and sister’s complexions had the dark glow of caramel and eyes so dark like rich colors of tree bark, it just made sense. Not only did I find out that day that I had lost my papa, but also the identity I lived by was a lie and that I was actually Native American.
It took me a while to accept that part of me, at first it was because the textbooks at school would call us “savages” and blame my ancestors for “holding back colonizers from creating America” I was scared of who I was, but as time passed and my innocence slowly started to disintegrate, my hesitancy towards my culture evolved to I am not 100% Native so I can’t claim that as my identity. I battled the blood that pumped my heart for years, was I good enough? The thought of my blood grandpa living out there somewhere in the world and not wanting anything to do with me shredded me to pieces, made me hate that part of me even more. It wasn’t until my senior year of high school when I decided to do a do a poetry program on my culture for competitive speech that I realized, this is a part of who I am, It does not matter how much blood I have or that my relative that links me to this identity is a ghost in my life. I realized that I believe that blood has no value when it comes to identity. Whether that be me identifying myself to my papa because I looked up to him and wanted to be like him even though our bloods didn’t mix, or that I am not 100% native but I still have blood that rushes through me and that still counts. If I want these things to make up who I am, and fulfill my identity, I’m going to proudly open the gates to it because I do not need to let blood define who I am.