Honest Thoughts on Looking “American”

I accepted I was white a long time ago. The first time I realized I did not look Latin was when my second grade teacher picked on me to tour a new student, fresh from America. She told me in her sweet fluent English that he would feel more comfortable with “someone who looked like him.” Sporting bleach-blonde curls at the time, I realized that it was because I was one of the only ones in my class who had fair skin and light hair. I was known as the “gringa.” Although born and raised in Bolivia, I came from a German and American background, meaning I did not look like a stereotypical Bolivian at all. My hair wasn’t dark, my eyelashes were thin and light, and my skin immediately burned after exposure to the sun. I bombarded myself with questions that a small eight-year-old couldn’t answer. Did the way I looked determine my identity? I ate Bolivian food, spoke fluent Spanish, and felt as Bolivian as ever--yet people around me insisted that I was not like everyone else. I was singled out, but I was far from oppressed. People around me ogled at my blonde curls and told me my skin was so beautiful. I never saw a huge problem with it, and I took every compliment with a kind “thank-you” and a smile--until I moved to the United States.

It’s not often that an American comes across a Bolivian, and that’s okay. After all, we compose the third smallest Hispanic group in the United States. What is not okay is when people stereotype on what we’re supposed to look like. I thought that by moving to the United States I would finally escape a life where I was only known as the American-looking Bolivian; however, I ended up migrating to a country where people think they know what I should look like. In the summer of 2014 I came across one of these people, his name was Nik. Although I can promise that his name is actually spelled like that, I can’t promise that I knew what was going on in his head when I met him. After our introductions, he asked me if what he had heard was correct, “Are you actually from Bolivia?” I wasn’t sure if he was surprised at how I looked or just how far away I’d travelled to get to Lincoln, but it was his following question that made it clear to me. “Wait so why are you white?” Nik asked me, his face serious and genuinely confused. Although I wish I could say that this is all a Mean Girls reference, this instance shaped my view of Americans. It made no sense to me how someone with any kind of education could wonder that to himself, let alone ask it out loud. It made me feel worthless and hesitant about telling people my identity.

My first day at boarding school in Connecticut reaffirmed my conclusion. When I met people and told them about my origins, they either commented on how surprisingly American I looked or asked if I was “actually Bolivian.” Although it bothered me how much they stereotyped Bolivians, it bothered me more that they said this as a compliment. Their gushing voices smiled as they reassured me that I could trick anyone into thinking I was American. Whether intentionally or not, what people were implying was that having white skin and light eyes is something to be proud of and that I should be thankful I don’t look Bolivian. It is not only detrimental to Bolivians, but also to American who aren’t white. As a result, I spent the last year doubting my identity; thinking to myself that life would be so much more simple if I didn’t have to explain to people why I look the way I do.