Jesus Jimenez Language Autobiography

Jesús Jimenez
Language Autobiography

    I’ve never been able to hold on to that wild horse that was my identity, during grade school. Being Mexican-American gave me a good sense of pride and a certain type of secureness that my parents couldn’t provide in my young life. Identifying who I was back then was a feat that at the time was too much pressure for an second grader. Stereotypes were something that messed up my social life, leading me into conclusions about who I needed to be.
    My second grade class was filled with Cambodians, African-Americans, and many other people you would find in South Philly. I was the only Mexican that I know that attended my school at the time. And a lot of people looked at me as if I was something else, they thought I was a person who jumped a border to come to this country, the way the media presented it. The reality was, that I was the kid that lived down your block and and has been living there since living there since forever. Back at that point in time at school, we read stories about people in the huge textbooks, you know, the ones bigger than your face. And once in a while, we got to a story that had a hispanic child struggling in the Bronx. You don’t know how many times I’ve read that story, each in a different incarnation. Anyway, I’ve always compared my life to those stories, often referring to them as fiction. The other kids in the classroom always looked at me at the end of every story, having the idea in their heads that I was this hispanic boy who spoke to his abuelita in Spanglish. It wasn’t like that at all. Kids sometimes went up to me and asked me “How do you say “@#$&%” in Spanish. Of course I knew Spanish, but there was a certain feel when they asked me that. Disgust and dirtiness of telling them the word to satisfy their curiosity felt like all the bad things in Pandora’s box coming at me, but the pride and knowing something they wanted to know felt kind of like, I was better than them. I know it sounds horrible saying I’m better than someone but that’s the I way I felt then. My Mom even explained the equality of every person to me once, but sometimes her definitions don’t exactly match those of society’s.

“Hijo, ningun humano es mejor que otro” meaning “Son, no human is better than another.” is what my mother said.
It’s the truth in my opinion, but sadly I contradicted this lesson I was given... and it felt good. It had given me a huge ego and felt exactly like the time spiderman got his new suit with venom.
The whole translating words thing ended quickly, it was basically a fad. I kind of established that I was bilingual after the 10th translated word or so. Kids didn’t care anymore after a while. 
Time passed and eventually I got to Middle School, where kids start growing hair in all the wrong places and you make the dramatic change from a cubby to a locker. My motivation to do good in school was now structured from a “I want to get out of here!” feeling. People saw me as “smart” although I just figured “I’m not smart, you guys are just too lazy.”
    Middle School actually was the time where I started using Spanish more, I helped translate for my parents during parent teacher conferences, more Spanish speaking students came to our school, so I was kind of used as a resource tool to those who didn’t feel comfortable speaking English. I attracted many Latinos/Hispanics in my school community. But when they started asking to be my friend and go to their birthday parties, that became an issue with me. I personally, didn’t want to be friends with them. I didn’t like seeing myself fitting in with them, and I didn’t feel like fitting in, they were just too stereotypical. Stereotypes are something I can’t stand. Even with my hatred for stereotypes, I somehow became friends with them, unwillingly. But I managed to have a small number of these “friends”, even with that small number there still came trouble.
So one day this boy named Gustavo walks up to me,
“Jesús! Como estas guey?”
“Hey! Estoy bien... que pasa?
“Mira..” I’m not going into the whole conversation, but the point is that my group of friends want me to choose between them and my new friends I just met a couple days ago.
Anyway, then a kid named Pablo comes over and says to Gustavo...
“Guey, que le dices a mi compa?”
“I’m your compa?” I said suspiciously.
“Claro! Si tu...” Then Pablo gets “Kanyed” by Gustavo.
Again, I don’t want to go into too much detail about what they said. They insulted each other and  almost got into a fight. Over me. This whole “friendship” thing was getting out of control, the least I wanted was to get into a fight myself. I was literally like watching two kids fight over a toy. Maybe that’s what I was to them, a toy, a novelty. It was the same reason why all the kids made me do all the work in group projects, why I let kids copy from my quizzes, and why Gustavo and Pablo were fighting over me. If I was just going to be liked for being “smart”, and be used as a statistic for school or the school district, I didn’t want any part of this. I wanted to leave everything behind. My Mexican identity, my American identity, my smartness, my Spanish, everything! I was ashamed of who I was because it confused me about what I wanted for myself. If speaking a second language proved kids to be smart and get an education, and getting a GOOD education was rare for Mexican-Americans as a statistic, then I was already half way done being on either side of the scale. I couldn’t help it.

    It wasn’t until my 8th grade year where I didn’t care at all. My language and identity were something I didn’t care for anymore. I was simply just another student, and didn’t care about my grades, I just let them come naturally. I think I was covered in a veil, and it didn’t let me see how this whole identity thing works. It’s not bad and it’s not good either. It’s the in between thing that kind of classifies us where we need it. The language I spoke was a huge benefit, that I didn’t realize existed. No, it wasn’t translating slang to immature kids, it was communicating between people. It’s alright if I didn’t use it in my younger years, what mattered was that I knew that it is a part of me.
    As I progressed in my school life, I’ve gotten time to think. Now, as I write this language autobiography, it seems I went through a lot of reflection to get to where my mind is now. The Jesús Jimenez that existed in elementary and middle school changed a lot. Want to know what I think now? Well, now I think my identity isn’t what I feel like that I want to be, that comes after I’ve accomplished something that makes people recognize me for that. Spanish is part of my identity, I speak it at home, with Mrs. Hirschfield, and whenever I help my friends with spanish homework. It’s a skill that I’ve gained through interacting with my environment. It’s part of my history. Being a Mexican-American living in Philadelphia gives my life a little twist and excitement, and people aren’t sure about me and it gives me something to talk about when they get to know me. A big difference between then and now, is that I’m glad that I’m a spanish speaking Mexican. Because without that identity, I wouldn’t or couldn’t continue being me.

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