I have sifted through course descriptions time and time again searching for a course that aligned with my identity as a Mexican and Black woman. Finding courses centering Black voices and Black stories has been surprisingly achievable at UC Berkeley. Somehow, Chicanx Latinx Studies courses never fit into my schedule, academically or personally. I have always set aside that part of myself, hoping that the perfect moment would come at which my ancestors would say, “It’s time.”
In Oakland, it was quite tricky to feel disconnected from culture. We are a town of Brown faces and shared slang, and I never felt different. Everyone, myself included, ends their sentences with “on my mama” and refuses to pay for street parking. But when I sat and thought about what it means to be Latina, a deep insecurity took root in my stomach. Sure, I had a culture, but it was never one centered around my ethnicity. Alongside was the deep guilt of never understanding the words my abuelo said before he passed. I wish I understood the prayers and jokes I heard repeatedly throughout my childhood.
My household never heavily embraced tradition. The closest I got to being Latina was saying words such as “ligas” or the never-ending stack of tortillas in the fridge. I didn’t grow up with tias or tios, and my grandparents passed when I was rather young. I don’t think my parents ever thought about how they could mesh their two cultures together — raise Black and Mexican daughters — especially in a place such as Oakland where color never mattered. Finding myself and my heritage became a one-man mission that I pursued through songs, books and memories.
It wasn’t until my time at UC Berkeley that I would be given the opportunity to learn about my Latine background through academia. Not every class came with the same golden-ticket experience. Some classes felt like they were pushing me further away, and others felt like they were pulling me closer, but I finally had the chance to find myself.
My first time enrolling in a Latinx Studies course made me hyperaware of my disconnection from my Latinx heritage. The course was about analyzing Latinx creative literature and art. Going in, I thought this would be the space where I would meet other Latine students like me, ones that were interested in art and our history. I also thought it would be cool to learn something about the culture. I didn’t realize knowing Spanish was a prerequisite for the class. Foolishly, I thought the writings would be translated for the students’ understanding. Even more embarrassingly, the teacher was a white man, and many of the students did not share the same Latine roots that I had, yet they knew my own language better than I did. I walked out within the first 10 minutes and dropped the class the same day.
The next semester, I tried again with Latinx sociology. I wasn’t expecting the majority of students to be Latine when I walked inside the lecture hall. The class was filled with Mexicans, Salvadorans, Guatemalans and so many more. I was excited but also scared. It was possible to fit in if I tried hard enough, but I felt like an impostor. I couldn’t hide the fact that I was Black or mixed with something. It showed on my face anytime my professor made a joke in Spanish or said something with an accent. There were times when my professors asked us to turn around to our partners to talk. Everyone turned their heads away from me.
Around the time of the 2026 Super Bowl, my professor asked the class if we were excited to watch it the upcoming weekend because Bad Bunny was performing at halftime. The class roared in excitement, building this effervescent feeling while I sat blank-faced. I knew maybe one or two choruses from his songs. It felt like everyone knew I was cosplaying as this Latina woman full of culture and passion.
Nevertheless, the class was full of new information. I learned about different Latine ethnic groups, the history behind the umbrella term “Latine,” anti-Blackness within the community and Latine politics. The only time I felt connected to the rest of the class was when people shared that their relatives were supporters of President Donald Trump despite coming from immigrant backgrounds. We bonded over that strong hatred. Who knew Trump could bring people together like that?
The class forced me to ask my father more and more questions. “Daddy, would you go back to Mexico if you had the chance?” “What do you miss most about Mexico?”
He would respond with the same words every time: “I don’t know, I came here when I was 2 years old.”
My dad always felt I was ashamed of being Mexican. I didn’t speak the language nor try to learn it. I wrote poems about being Black and how proud I was to be, but when I talked about being Mexican, I could only talk about how little I knew of how to be it.
This summer, I’m taking a Chicano history course taught by a Chicano professor, Pablo Gonzalez. When I first read his biography and I found out he was from the Bay Area, I finally felt a twinge of connection. It was like a voice in my head saying, “You are Latina for real.” Despite the class being asynchronous, I could hear through the recorded lectures that he was like me. Whether you’re from the town or Berkeley or if you talk a little differently, it doesn’t make you belong any less.
I was so excited that my teacher was from the Bay. I told my father, and he asked me for his name. My father lit up with excitement. Gonzalez was one of his childhood friends. I don’t believe this was a coincidence. My ancestors were telling me that it was time. I felt that they had personally placed this professor in my life to teach me, that they had given me someone that could attest to my Latina roots despite my differences.
As I am still taking this course, I am slowly starting to learn more about precolonial Mexico and the places my father calls home. I am beginning to see myself in the archived photos of Indigenous women. I know Mexico is part of me even if I’ve never been. What I’ve learned thus far is that there is no correct way to be Latine. I’ve tried and erred through multiple classes trying to attain an identity without realizing I already had one. I’ve done myself a disservice by trying to squeeze into tiny margins that minimized my identity. Being Black and from the Bay doesn’t make me any less deserving of calling myself Latina. It is my birthright. It is my legacy. I can’t deny being Black, but I also can’t deny being born from Tepatitlán warriors.
Throughout all the ups and downs, drops and enrollments, lectures and more, I know that UC Berkeley has not only helped me learn my identity, but I can finally say it with pride: I am Latina for real.