First Accent

At an early age, people could hear my accent whenever I spoke English. I hated when people detected it, especially because my siblings did not have one, just me. I felt targeted by everyone. I felt looked down upon by others, while the people that caught my accent were very proud that they got it right. It was a time when I did not want attention. People felt they had the right to ask questions about my personal life and where I was from. I would answer people’s questions about me being born in the US, then they would ask where my parents were from since my answer was not good enough. I never understood why people did not like my answer.

I went to pre-K around four years old. I was taught at a very young age to speak only English with my peers, teachers, and friends … so I did. Is it so bad to be born and raised in the US and still have an accent? It was hard to explain to people about my accent and where it came from, because I, too, did not understand it. It is an accent that I was born with; it was not a choice, especially if my siblings did not have one. I even considered multiple times that I was adopted when I was little; that was the only way to explain this problem. However, my mom and I do look alike, so that rules it out. I guess I was different and “special” compared to my siblings. It was a time in my life when I did not want to feel “special”; I just wanted to blend in and belong. It was hard to communicate in Spanish with my parents and family. My Spanish sounded very bad and choppy.

To this day, I find it ironic that my younger sister and older brother know how to read, write, and speak Spanish fluently, and I, the middle child, do not. It is hard to explain. When other people ask about my family, they do not understand how that can happen, and frankly, I do not get it either. I mean... we all went to the same elementary school growing up; the only difference is that my siblings had bilingual classes for some elementary years, and I did not. Those classes were not offered when I was in that grade level. It really sucks that I still do not know how to read or write Spanish proficiently. I felt that I had two things working against me: not knowing Spanish and having a Mexican accent whenever I spoke English. I figured I would be the one without an accent since I was the one who was only taught English growing up. Life is weird, you know?

Not being fluent in Spanish caused me stress growing up, especially when visiting Mexico, where I would get bullied for not knowing the language. I never really understood why my cousins and people in Mexico would laugh whenever I spoke in Spanish. I was learning two languages growing up, while they only had to learn one. It got to the point where I was mocked so much for my choppy Spanish that I stayed silent for years. I felt it was the best way for me to avoid getting laughed at by my cousins and uncles if I just stayed mute. I felt those family members and people that would mock me would take pleasure in doing it. I always felt that I was an easy target. I felt there was no point in talking to adults and cousins when they were not actually listening to what I had to say. I felt they gaslighted me many times so I would talk, mess up, and then have an opportunity to laugh at me. I was okay when my cousins would do it because we were around the same age; we were kids, but when my uncles or older people would do it, I was embarrassed and upset. There were times when adults would go up to my mom and tell her that my Spanish was choppy. My mom would fake a smile and say she knew, causing me to be more upset with myself. I never understood the point of full-grown adults pointing out the obvious to a mother about their own child … like, why?

Around the age of eight, I started speaking less Spanish and used my siblings as interpreters whenever we went to Mexico. Between the ages of seven and twelve, we went to Mexico almost every weekend. I received my First Communion and Confirmation there as part of my Catholic faith. For many of my childhood years, I felt frustrated and misunderstood. I wished more people knew how funny, smart, and talkative I am. If only they were willing to be patient and listen to me without judging the few mistakes that I made when I misspoke as a child. I would also stay close to my younger sister; it made me feel safe. I knew that many of the game invitations that I would receive from my cousins were because they wanted my sister to play with them; otherwise, many would not want me. I felt like an outcast among my family. I do not even think they knew who I really was. I mean... I sure did not express it.

My mom would make me do impressions of famous Mexican singers and comedians in front of my family to let them know that I was funny, that I had a comedic side to me. I was a funny child. I loved to make people laugh, because laughing is a universal language. All I had to do was practice what I saw on TV and then perform it in front of others. It was not hard to do at that time. I felt that it was my talent growing up, making people laugh. I loved dancing, singing, and imitating famous people and having those nice compliments afterwards. It made me happy to realize that there are so many different kinds of laughs people can make. I felt that this was my way for people to know that I existed. It was a way to show people a part of who I was. I loved the spotlight that it brought me when all eyes were fixated on me. It made me feel important. It made me feel like I mattered. I was the only one of my siblings and cousins who danced and imitated people. I was the middle child in my family, so I guess that also explains why I craved the spotlight in some way.

At the same time, I also felt like I was a fraud, a fake. Once my performance was over, I would be silent again. The reason I was good at singing and imitating people that I saw on TV was because I would practice. Once that was over, the spell was broken, and I went back to being invisible. I went back to feeling embarrassed, humiliated, shy, and picked on. When I stopped talking Spanish in front of my family and people in Mexico, I was labeled as capricious, presumptuous, and judgmental. When I heard from others that I look like I am presumptuous, which can come across as rude or arrogant, I did not mind it at all. I would rather have people thinking that I am rude than have them laughing in my face for not knowing Spanish. I knew the people who truly knew me would never think that way.