#bicultural

[sophia-michelle-art]

So ... I wrote a book!!! :D YAY

This is my first children book, written and illustrated by me/

Self published through Amazon in Canada and US stores mainly.

It is a story about a young axolotl born in a mixed raced family (Axolotl and Salamander) just trying to fit in with family and school!

It is entirely bilingual, so it is also perfect for learning Spanish or English as well! :D

[fae-lien]

[pattytacuri]

family guilt

I will not bear the responsibility of other people’s welfare- I can be compassionate and kind without allowing others to step on my boundaries I can be a good person and not feel like a bad daughter or sister for refusing to give into the drama and chaos my parents and sister try to involve me in- I’m beyond accommodating or pleasing my family to the detriment of my mental health it doesn’t make me selfish it makes a woman protecting her peace

2/7/23

[rawliverandcigarettes]

I think one of the reasons why I latched onto asari characters but not super onto asari culture itself, is because I think there's something inherently... bi-cultural about being asari, in a way? Either you have to live with the heritage of another species weighing down on you regarding its expectations, history and shortcoming, knowing that by nature, you probably won't even get to spend that much time with your dad and will have to accomodate for the hole they'll leave behind; or you're pureblood, and you're also ostracized by default.

Every asari is kind of doomed to feel culturally incomplete in some way, and I think it's pretty wild that it's baked deep within the biology itself.

[knottedskein]

El Paso.

My parents lovingly doted on me in Spanish. I unknowingly babbled nonsense aligned to no particular world. My boundless coos came from the safety of my nest. Maybe it was too soon to tell which way I would sway. I was just a baby. Una bebesita. Were my cries in English? ¿Soñaba en español? Did I want to play with a ball or ¿jugar con una pelota? Was my favorite color rosa mexicano or did I ask to surround myself with Barbie pink? Did I go by Débbie or Debbie? Did mami and papi anticipate that I would lose my way? And did they know I would find my own path?

Miami.

Here la historia begins. My thoughts became tangible and solidified. My sentences brincando between dos mundos. I want leche. I want a muñeca. ¡Quiero candy! Dos padres very confundidos by my melange of Spanglish. They tried to make sentido of my words. There was no order to a lenguaje unconstrained by reglas. Mama y papa tried to teach me how to contar. So I counted to mis papas: one, dos, three, four, cinco, seis, seven.....

San Antonio.

¡En esta casa hablamos español! I learned to navigate the awkward Spanish words with the twist of my rigid tongue. Mi pobre boca felt thick with palabras and ideas that had no release. My fragmented Spanish no longer glittered the floor in broken shards. Instead, it was precariously pieced together—held tightly with anglicized thoughts. I tried to make the palabras come out, but it only chipped away at something that was already broken. My parents would come to lament the choice I had made. In this house, I spoke English.

Puebla.

Mi vocabulario se alimento con cultura. Estuve intoxicada con los colores y sonidos. Mis palabras se volvieron miel. Sacarina. Dorada y viscosa. Vivía en un paraíso mexicano mientras conservé mi inglés con solo mis pensamientos. La miel atrapó mis pensamientos como ámbar y preservó mi ingenuidad. Mi inglés se mantuvo inmaculado con mi juventud. Mientras, mi español pudo madurar y explorar este nuevo terreno. Pero este néctar empalagoso no logró saciar las gargantas de los demás. Les ofrecí miel, cuando nada más quisieron la pureza del agua. I wanted nothing more than to offer the very nectar that had sanded the callouses off my tongue. Yet, their fangs drained the sweetness from my fragile veins. Their forked tongues stabbed sibilant snarls into my sensitive ears. Their talons tore at my paper-thin skin while I stretched my arms out in surrender. I begged for mercy, but I was met with their vitriol. Their venom spat across my face and the acid was left to blister my delicate flesh. My Spanish offended them. So, they left me branded with gleaming rosa scars. La gringa.

Farmington.

Chillicothe.

Selma.

I clenched my hands around mis palabras like the flawless diamantes I chiseled from mi tierra sagrada. No puedo dejar que escuchen mi español. They wouldn’t hear my Spanish. Pero los diamantes dug their resentment into my flesh with their sharp points. I held a precious hidden treasure in my palms that I feared would be ripped from my clutches by overzealous thieves. I wanted nothing more than to wash off the sangre that dripped from my pierced fingers. I wanted to thrash and scream— ¡Mira! ¡Mira como brillan! ¡Mira que preciosos y radiantes son! But when I finally spread my fingers out wide for the world to see, they only saw the blackest coal glistening with the redness of my fear. They snatched black diamonds and set my mundo ablaze. From the glowing embers, they branded my skin anew. The wetback.

San Antonio. Again.

Again. There were others like me, but were they like me? Were the manuals to their lives written in English or ¿escrito en español? Do they prefer flour tortillas or ¿prefieren tortillas de maiz? Did they have to climb up to the stage and prove to the world, that like, ¡No, en serio! ¡Te lo juro! Soy Mexicana! ¿O les arrancaban el micrófono de las manos a pesar de gritar, “No, I swear! I’m American!”? I was no longer alone. We were alone together. Our existence and identities became a performance; a dance for no one that particularly cared. "Watch the amazing acrobatics! See how we jump between two worlds!" Uno que nos rechazó por haber nacido en el mundo equivocado and one that unwelcomed us for being born with a different language caged behind our teeth. They tried to mark us out in the open, but our skins held no more room for new scars. Instead, they abandon like the waste they deemed us. We were left ignored and unworthy of recognition. We became expendable. Unseemly. Incongruous. Nothing. Nada.

Here and now.

My skin is no longer tattooed with scars with which I was branded. It has thickened and matured. It’s the leather of an ancient tome that was bestowed secret knowledge of two powerful realms. It’s the bark of a wizened gnarled oak that straddles the old and new worlds. I am steady in my journey and I am sure of my path. Tengo mi voz y mis susurros will tear down brick walls erected by the deplorable. Tengo mi voz y mis gritos will demand for all dreamers to have their dreams realized. Tengo mi voz y anunciaré al mundo que I know who I am and am not. I am too white. I am not dark enough. I am not white enough. Soy descolorida. I am nothing. Soy nada. I am a wetback. Soy una gringa. I am something. Soy todo. I am the longing for Spanish to kiss me with their honeyed lips. Soy la boca que fue moldeada con la fuerza y dureza de inglés. I am Latinx y soy latine. I am mexicana. Soy American. I am both. Soy dos almas encerradas en un cuerpo. I am the amalgamation of the ancient and modern. Soy las tradiciones pasadas por mis papás and I am the resister of their outdated ways. Soy Mexican-American. I am mexicana-americana. I’m me. Soy yo. Me.

[pedropascalito]

“What is he eating?” 

This one line defined Maxwell Lord for me, made him sympathetic, and made me cry. 

It is something I share with other bi-cultural kids: being noticed, or bullied, for being “other.” Your clothes, your food, your parent’s accent. It’s something you never forget. 

To this day, I hate people asking me, “What are you eating?” 

To know Pedro himself probably experienced this makes it even more poignant. He did a beautiful job portraying Maxwell Lord with layers and sympathy. 

Well done, Pedro. And thank you.

[zupawama]

Why Imposter Syndrome Goes Deep for Multiracial People “...people who identified themselves as multiracial were the most likely to screen positive or at-risk for alcohol/substance use disorders, anxiety, depression, eating disorders, and psychosis. There’s research that shows that multiracial people have more behavioral health problems than their monoracial counterparts. They face unique stressors, and often find that it is difficult to connect with others - even with other multiracial people. More often than not, the parents of multiracial people will not necessarily understand their struggles. Even among multiracial people, their experiences are so unique that talking with other multiracial people can feel disjointed, and there can be a failure to connect.” having a good read w/ this one so far and would definitely recommend it, and doubly so if you’re not biracial. as always, let me know if there’s any false or ill-intentioned information in the article

[bidotorg]

Bilingual, Bicultural, and Bisexual

Many of us Latinos are already bilingual, binational, bicultural and even bisexual.

None of us get to choose our race, ethnicity, or sexual orientation. But we do get to choose whether to be proud of who we are.