“I speak Spanish the way some people sing along to a song they love: I know more than I can confidently say out loud.” – Eddy (he/him)
By Eddy Chavez
For many years, I wondered if I was Hispanic enough.
Gay enough? Absolutely. No doubt there.
But time with my extended family sometimes conveyed a different story. My mom and dad spoke Spanish fluently, as did their parents. Yet somehow, my dad thought learning Spanish would hold me back, so we never spoke it at home.
Maybe in some situations it would have. I was born last century, after all, and times were different. But I was also born in South Texas — Hook ‘em Horns! — where machismo and Hispanic culture were firmly woven into everyday life.
Like many Hispanic families, weekends were devoted to family gatherings, weddings, and quinceañeras, where I grew up with the food, music, and traditions. I had no idea what the mariachis were singing, but with the beats they served, I didn’t need to know. Plus, my family spoke enough Spanglish, so I could sort of follow along.
By junior high, I decided to take business into my own hands and signed up for Spanish 101.
Full stop: Learning another language is hard.
I became one of those people who take classes on and off, build up an impressive Duolingo streak, lose it, start again, and occasionally travel to Mexico, hoping immersion will finally do the trick. Over time, I learned just enough Spanish to fumble my way through ordering a meal or asking for basic directions.
My husband is of Dutch heritage, which means that when we’re in Mexico, shop owners tend to look at me and think, “Clearly, this is our guy.”
They are frequently disappointed.
Oddly enough, though, not speaking Spanish wasn’t my biggest concern growing up. Understanding my queerness was.
From an early age, I remember my primos paying less attention to my language skills and more attention to the alleged swish in my walk. They told me it was a dead giveaway. At first, I didn’t even understand what they meant, but as I got older, I realized that before I had the words to describe myself, other people had already decided what they saw.
One memory has stayed with me for decades.
It was about 8 PM when the phone rang at home. I answered it, and the call was for my high school-aged stepsister. I stayed on the line long enough for her to pick up the other extension. Before I hung up, I heard her friend say she thought a girl had answered.
I was 7.
These brief moments teach you things about yourself, even when you’re too young to understand the lesson. I learned early that the way I spoke, moved, and existed was something other people noticed. And eventually, I learned to notice them, too.
When I turned 20, I moved to Los Angeles, far from family and high school friends. Nobody knew me there. I had the opportunity to start over.
Naturally, I wanted to work in the movies. Who doesn’t?
While my movie career never quite materialized, L.A. gave me something much more important: the space to throw myself out of the proverbial closet and experience the freedom of saying, without hesitation, “I am gay.”
A few decades later, my Spanish is still a work in progress. I still understand more than I can say. I still freeze when someone speaks to me too quickly, and my brain suddenly forgets every Spanish word it has ever encountered.
But I don’t spend much time wondering if I’m Hispanic enough anymore.
I know where I come from. I know the foods, sounds, people, and traditions that influenced me. I know that being gay doesn’t make me less Hispanic, and imperfect Spanish doesn’t erase generations of family, culture, and memory.
I’ll probably always be a student of my culture, and I’m OK with that.
I’m proud of where I come from, proud of the gay person I became, and proud that I no longer need to pass someone else’s test to claim either part of myself.
Even if I still don’t understand everything those mariachis are singing about.
