You see, while I just celebrated my 33rd birthday, and my 32nd year in the U.S., it was the first time I was eligible to vote in a Presidential election. While my family was lucky enough to immigrate with green cards, I did not become a citizen until 2009. I had tried to naturalize in time for the 2008 elections, but the process in Los Angeles takes so long that I missed that historic election.

Why did it take me so long to even start that process?

I could have naturalized at 18, when I became a legal adult. Or when I was 22 and married a U.S. citizen, but something always prevented me from making the commitment to citizenship, despite being very opinionated about politics and social movements. I could say it was the exorbitant fees: over $500 at the time and several days off work (those costs are even higher now), but while that was a hardship, it wasn’t the biggest obstacle.
As an immigrant, I inherited a sense of nostalgia for my home country, El Salvador.

It was my mother and father who dreamt for decades of returning, and my siblings who flew back for reunions with high school friends, not me. I left El Salvador at 11 months old, so there are no real memories bringing me back to that place. Still, I felt, and sometimes feel, a kinship and a longing for that place, that identity, which is so different from this place, and this identity, my identity.

While I am proud to be Salvadoran, many people are surprised to learn that I am Salvadoran, assuming…I’m not sure what. Whatever it is that others picture when they picture a “Salvadoran,” apparently, it isn’t me. It might be what I must admit is a “valley girl” accent, or my stilted Spanish, or it might be that I grew up in the San Francisco Bay and that is where I was socialized to be the hippy geek that I am today.

For years, I felt ambivalent about becoming a U.S. citizen. The U.S. involvement in the civil war that killed 80,000 Salvadorans and caused my family to flee to the U.S. was something that made the idea of becoming an official “American” a dark prospect, as if I’d be siding with the “bad guy” in the context of El Salvador’s history. For years, I thought of doing a dual citizenship, but the U.S. doesn’t even recognize dual citizenship with El Salvador, so that was out.

Finally, it wasn’t my yearning to have a say in American politics, or even my sense of belonging in the U.S., that forced my hand. It was the birth of my first daughter, an American citizen.

When I got pregnant, I realized that it was insane to stay a legal “alien” with children who were American. What if something awful happened and the U.S. decided to expel immigrants like me? I didn’t want anything to be a barrier between me and my children. So I did what my parents could never bring themselves to do and I naturalized.

It was the right thing, not just for those personal reasons, but because as an educator I am working every day to empower young (and not so young) people — to help them use their voices in pursuit of their goals. I believe in the spirit of community and service.

I will raise my girls to know that they count; therefore, they are obligated to use their voices and their hands and their power for the good of others. It’s my responsibility not only to vote in this country where I have built my life, but to commit myself to this place, as a full citizen and do my best to make it the kind of place I am proud to call home.

Am I still Salvadoran? Por su puesto! But am I American too? Totally.

{Photo by  ©HTO3}

Note: Up until now we never wrote on this blog or our Facebook change who our candidate was or which party we endorsed because this site is not about politics. But now that the election is over, I have many thoughts I want to share. Thanks for this space.

We always try to stay away from politics in SpanglishBaby, but it’s unavoidable to talk about the most important event in our recent history: the reelection of our first African-American President, brought by in large part thanks to the 70-75% of Latinos that voted for Obama.

That’s huge.

It’s huge not only because we can claim to be the largest minority, but because we’re not a sleeping giant; we came out in masses to vote for what the majority of us believe in. We claimed the right to be recognized, heard and have Washington create and vote on policies that affect our community and thus our nation.

I’m proud to be American. I’m proud to be part of the 16% of the population that identifies as Latina. I’m proud to be a Latina mom. I’m proud to be the mom of a girl of mixed-heritage that has the opportunity to learn in two languages because the parents and administration in our district believe that California’s ban on bilingual education is wrong, and we’ve found a way to ignore it.

Regardless of your political affiliation or vote, I hope that you recognize the beauty in our community coming together and voting for what our children need.

I do hope that it doesn’t just stay on hope. I now have faith that Latinos will keep making a presence and keep putting pressure to get important reforms, such as the Dream Act, passed and make those we voted for accountable for their constituencies. We can’t be brushed aside anymore. We want real change. We want real access to education for our children. We want our heritage language — and all others — to be valued without it ever having to be seen as a threat to the English-language, but as a complement.

Not only that, we want a #LatinaPrincess (or, yes, a #LatinoPrince too!). We want our books to not be banned anywhere. We want Latinos in college — the largest minority group in higher education — to have everything they need to succeed and propel our nation forward. We want to coexist.

And now we’ve spoken. ¡Que así sea!

And now back to our regularly scheduled {awesome} content to make your raising bilingual and bicultural kids journey a whole lot more fun, easy and successful! If you’re new, grab a cafecito and start here.

On this Election Day, I am pondering how much America is changing and how much it is changing me. The earliest recollection I have of the political process is the 1992 election in which Ross Perot ran for president. I was 6 years old. This was long before I had an overwhelming cultural awareness, and certainly before I spoke Spanish. Twenty years ago, this country was not plagued with worry about how well the government would represent Latinos, and hearing a Spanish campaign ad was as rare as finding a decent Spanish radio station. Although I knew a few Latinos at the time, I never could’ve imagined the impact this demographic would have on the future of the country, and on my own life.

As someone who studied political science in college, I like to delve into the grand symbolism of each candidate’s ideology and why masses of people can be corralled into a two-party system. I see voting as a civic duty that we have to perform in order to take advantage of government services in exchange, not necessarily as something personally meaningful.

However, this election is the first that has made me look around and realize what a large stake some people put in their right to vote in America. I remember that I have never lived in a country in which this kind of participation is impossible. I have never lived in, for example, any part of Latin America that has been ravaged by civil war and ruled by militant means. My memories are of my parents watching the news, discussing amendments, and taking me along to the polls. Not exactly a gut-wrenching argument for the importance of the democratic process… at least not in the way that a dangerous political past can be. I realize that a lot of the people standing in line beside me — immigrants in particular — are there because they are moved by more than just a sense of duty.

My daily exposure to so many people who were not born in this country is shifting my view. I’m starting to understand, if slowly, why voting is not just a responsibility. I do experience something almost magical standing in line (sometimes for hours) with other average people who are all empowered by the feeling of bubbling in a ballot. Maybe this is the most powerful thing I’ll ever feel about my right to vote, since I can’t generate memories of a home in which this isn’t possible. I wouldn’t volunteer to switch places with someone who lives under a despotic government, but I am grateful for the opportunity to live vicariously through each person who has an even more sentimental connection to America than I, a native American, do.

As I watch white Americans like myself become the minority in the near future, I hope I can remember — even if it’s only once every four years — that America means different things to different people, but all of those things are equally relevant.

{Photo by Vox Efx}