text: “Hola señorita. ¿Hablas español?” For most people, this question has a simple answer. For me, it feels like a thousand-pound weight on my shoulders. Do I say yes? Do I say no? My usual response is, “Sí, un poquito,” accompanied by anxiety as I wait for someone who truly speaks the language to take over. Sure, I can understand almost every Spanish word spoken to me—but what good is it if I can’t respond? How did such a simple question come to define such a large part of my life? I am a Dominican-Puerto Rican New Yorker, y hablo un poquito de español. I have immense pride in my cultures, though I didn’t always feel this way.
  I was born to a Nuyorican father who, like me, isn’t particularly fluent in Spanish. My mother, however, is a Dominican woman, born and raised. She is my connection to our culture—a culture that I resonate with in my own way. She taught me all the values important in a typical Dominican household: cleanliness, good manners, a strong work ethic, the importance of God—or Dios—and, of course, delicious food. She brought the island of la República Dominicana to Westchester, NY. And yet, I still felt out of place.
  “Tu eres una gringa.” These words make me feel like a lost puzzle piece, caught between two worlds, unable to fully step into either. My lack of proficiency in my mother’s tongue creates a sense of limbo. I’m not Hispanic enough, but I’m also not American enough—whatever that means. This limbo has caused a lot of confusion. I could never feel certain about what box to check off, and frankly, it brought a cloud of shame over me. I struggled to connect deeply with family members, I felt lost in conversations, and I felt powerless, unable to speak my truth. At times, it felt like no one could truly understand this feeling.
  I spoke with my father, who had a similar experience, and I wondered if he ever felt the same identity crisis as his “no sabo” kid. He told me, “I felt comfortable with who I was, based on the environment I was raised in. Not speaking the language proficiently didn’t make me feel less Hispanic. It gave me the desire to learn as I got older.” His struggles didn’t diminish his place in his culture; he created space for himself and found empowerment through his hardships.
  My journey to find my place has been long, but I’ve learned that I will never fit neatly into any box—and I’m okay with that. The boxes were too small for me anyway. Being a “no sabo” kid doesn’t make me any less Hispanic. I still love my cultures and will always represent them with pride. Now, I practice my Spanish whenever I can, and each day, I become more comfortable with it. To all the other “no sabo” kids out there: you are Hispanic enough. Your love for your culture and identity cannot be measured by how well or how much of the language you speak. Pride comes from within, and that can never be taken away.