Life as a Latino in America is complicated. Living between the two worlds of being Latino and American can generate great uncertainty. And the strange mixture of ethnic pride and racial prejudice creates another sort of confusion.- Who are you as a Latino?- Who are you as an American?- What has Christ to say about your dilemma?- How can you accept who you are in Christ with joy and confidence?Orlando Crespo has taken his own journey from Puerto Rico to an immigrant neighborhood in Springfield, Massachusetts, and back again to his Latino roots. In this books he helps you to reflect on your own voyage of self-understanding and on what it means to have a mixed heritage from the days of the original Spanish Conquest to the present. His straightforward approach also takes him to what the Bible says about ethnic identity--about a people who were often oppressed by more powerful cultures. He helps you to see how Jesus' own humanity unfolded in the context of a people who were considered to be inferior. Thus Crespo finds both realism and hope in the good news of Jesus. There is more, however, than merely coming to terms with who you are. Crespo also shows how Latinos are called to step out positively in ministry to the world. You can make a positive impact in on the world in racial reconciliation, in bicultural ministry and more because of who God has uniquely made you to be. Here is a book for all Latinos who want to live confidently in Christ.
When I was woven together in the depths of the earth,
your eyes saw my unformed body.
PSALM 139:15-16
When I was seven years old my parents decided to move our family into a predominantly White neighborhood of Italian, Irish and Polish immigrants in Springfield, Massachusetts. Bursting with excitement and energy during the first week in our new home, we spent much of our time in our new backyard, vigorously raking up crabapples that had fallen from our apple tree. The lawn had not been raked for years, and the more we raked, the more layers of crabapples we uncovered. But it didnât matter: this was our new home, an opportunity to reach for our dreams, a place where my four siblings and I could live in safety with a backyard to play in. It was truly an exciting season of our lives, and we couldnât wait to get everything in order, even those mushy, smelly crabapples.
As we raked and filled bag after bag with apples, neighbors passed by, peering into our backyard to see who their new neighbors were. They saw that we looked Latino, and no one approached us to welcome us. A neighbor across the street was outright angry when he discovered we were âSpicsâ (a derogatory name used for Hispanics in the 1970s). He revealed his disgust every time we played stickball on the street and the ball accidentally rolled onto his property. With resentment and hatred in his eyes he would glare at us and order us to get out of his yard and his neighborhood. âYou donât belong here. Go back to Puerto Rico where you belong!â heâd say, unaware that we had been born and raised in Springfield and had never even visited Puerto Rico.
At such moments I felt confused. I couldnât understand why he was so disgusted with us. What was so bad about a ball going into his front yard? I made a mental note to stay out of this manâs way. I was afraid that next time he might try to hurt me.
This neighbor watched us like a hawk, taking note of every little thing we did. It became so extreme and frustrating for my family that we nicknamed him Nosy Charlie, which conveniently described both his attitude and his large protruding nose. Only decades later did I fully comprehend the concept of racism and the impact of bigotry in my life, beginning in those first weeks of moving into our new home. Not long after my family moved in, the neighbor and his family moved out.
A 1972 article in New York magazine captured the sentiments of millions of Whites who were similarly being forced to interact with Puerto Ricans moving into their neighborhoods.
These people were âSpanish.â They came in swarms like ants turning the sidewalks brown, and they settled in, multiplied, whole sections of the city fallen to their shiny black raincoats and chewing-gum speech. We called them âmeedahs,â [from the word mira, meaning âlookâ or âlook over hereâ] because they were always shouting âmee-dah, mee-dah.â⊠I only knew they grew in numbers rather than stature, that they were neither white nor black but some indelicate tan, and that they were here, irrevocably; the best you could do to avoid contamination was to keep them out of mind.1
To survive such hatred of Puerto Ricans, I learned to live in two worlds even as an adolescent. At home I spoke Spanish, ate Puerto Rican food, danced salsa and merengue with my three sisters, and enjoyed cultural events like Parrandasâfiestas during the Christmas seasonâwith my extended family. But when I walked out the front door and joined my White friends in the neighborhood, I left behind my Puerto Rican identity and tried to assimilate as thoroughly as possible. In fact, because of my light complexion some of my new friends in junior high school did not notice that I was Puerto Rican. I enjoyed letting them assume I was White, because they treated me as one of their own.
The moment they discovered I was Puerto Rican, the look on their faces and their attitudes changed. âYouâre Puerto Rican? I canât believe it. I thought you were White.â In other words, I thought you were OK. Now I donât know anymore. They were not mean to me, but something felt different. They seemed more aloof and less interested in me. They didnât seek me out the way they used to. As a young teenager very attuned to my emotions, I could feel the difference and I hated it. But instead of brushing this off and seeing their ignorance, I internalized my feelings and saw myself as âless than.â
On the way home after one of these incidents I imagined what it would be like to be White all the time and not just at certain times. Iâll never tell anyone Iâm Puerto Rican unless they figure it out on their own, I thought. That way I can feel like one of them and fit in all the time. Somehow I knew this idea would never work and would only lead to greater pain in the end.
I was not proud to be Puerto Rican. We were told we were dirty, loud, uneducated, immoral and unable to speak English âgood.â These were the stereotypes I internalized and learned to live with every day as I stepped out into the White world. But at home I received a different message. Our mother, Casilda, loved us and valued education highly. She taught us to study hard. Our father, Francisco, worked himself to the bone to allow us a better life. Our grandparents, RamĂłn and Alejandra, had a marriage that had endured despite social pressure on their family. My older brother, Edwin, took me wherever he went and was my protector. My sisters, Marilyn, Sandra and Milagro, affirmed me in all I did and believed in me when I could not. In all it was the love of mi familia, their warmth, nurture and sacrifices, that initially sheltered me from the hard blows of prejudice, racism and alienation.
I wish I could write that the alienation I felt from prejudice didnât hurt me, but it did. It left its ugly imprint on my soul. It seems that some Latinos have been able to let hurtful events roll off their backs like water. I admire and commend them, but I am not one of them.
Given my struggles, I am surprised at how successful I have been and how much I have accomplished. I have received numerous athletic, drama and ministry awards. How can someone overcome by low selfworth succeed in so much? It is because God has revealed his love for all that I amâincluding my Latino identity at crucial moments in my life.
In times of reflection, as I have allowed my pain to surface, God has kept bringing me back to the truth that he made me with great intentionality and purpose. When I wanted to abandon my identity as a Latino, God picked up all the pieces I wanted to leave behind.
My faith in Jesus Christ and my identity are inextricably bound up together. I am not only a Christian: I am a Christian who is Latino, and I am a Latino who is a Christian.
In this chapter I invite you to take a journey with me as I revisit the events, relationships and circumstances that God used to build my ethnic identity. Like any long journey, mine is filled with rocky terrain of pain and setbacks but also smooth terrain of joy and long strides forward. As if with bright yellow paint used to mark a trail in a wooded area, I will mark the experiences that contributed most to my Latino identity and have moved me toward what theologian Orlando Costas calls a cultural conversion, an awakening to oneâs ethnic self. Here are the yellow markers for the trail I have discovered on my journey.
1.connecting with others like me
2.embracing the pain of my people
3.understanding Latino complexity and alienation
4.receiving encouragement for the journey
My hope is that these âyellow markersâ will help direct your path and make your journey toward wholeness that much easier.
MY TRIP TO PUERTO RICO: CONNECTING WITH OTHERS LIKE ME
When I was thirteen years old, my mother decided it was time for my sisters and me to spend a summer with Tio Diego, Tia Juanita y nuestra familia en Puerto Rico. My sisters arrived in Puerto Rico a week earlier than I did. I had to fly alone, having decided to stay to play one more week of Little League baseball.
I was extremely nervous when I got on the plane. I had no idea what to expect and began to feel as if Iâd made a terrible mistake. I even thought about asking the flight attendant if I could just stay on the plane and fly back with the crew.
But from the moment I stepped off the plane, something began to stir deep inside of me. Puerto Rico was beautiful. The air was warm and the sun shone brightly. The people were friendly, and they all looked like my family. They spoke Spanish, the language of my parents, the language I resented and thought was stupid. Here Spanish was the norm and Puerto Ricans were the majority. I met family members who were lawyers and studying to be doctors. For the first time in my life I saw welldressed Puerto Rican businessmen and politicians. So this is the island my parents talked about with such nostalgia, I marveled. A lot of things began to make sense as I saw the close resemblance of my parentsâ cultural ways to the habits of Puerto Ricans I met. Cousins, aunts and uncles I had only heard about loved me without knowing me and welcomed me with kindness, affection and hospitality like I had never experienced before. One of my aunts took me to the very shack where my mother and her family lived. My mom had told me about this place and the hardships they had faced. I felt I got to know my mom a little better and loved her a lot more. This was the summer that I fell in love with my people, my culture, my parents and my landâPuerto Rico, la Isla del Encanto (the Island of Enchantment).
This was also the summer I began to love myself and my ethnic identity. I had discovered I belonged to a land and a people who were gracious, intelligent and hospitable. I began to embrace who I was and realize to whom I belonged.
Discovering the beauty of my people and culture was a vital first step in my cultural conversion. It was a decisive moment that God used to offset the overpowering experience of being part of a minority that was looked down on by White America. Through it God began to shape me into a healthy human being and a Christian no longer in denial of his culture and ethnicity.
In Puerto Rico I discovered the value of interacting with others who are like you, who simply by being themselves unfold something in you. What you thought was a personal quirk in yourself or your parents reveals itself as a cultural quality. There is no better way to grow in your ethnic identity than through interactions with others who share your ethnicity.
In recent years when I have led conferences on ethnic identity in various parts of the United States, Latinos arrive reluctant to embrace their identity. By the end of the conference, having interacted with other Latinos, they begin to cherish these new friendships and their shared values and experiences. They discover something about themselves they had no idea was missing. I have seen them weep uncontrollably because they do not want to leave each other. Now that they have found the missing piece, they no longer want to live without it. For many, such connections and the f...
