“What Are You?” —Identity Surveillance: An American Obsession
08/05/20
By Cecília V. Ruiz
“What are you?”
These words resonate as clearly as the rattling nuisance of a sound that’s my 2:00 AM alarm for work. I was always the advocate growing up, the girl who friends would approach if they were in need of support on voicing a call to action, or if they wanted information on local resources that’d be of aid to them. I always knew what I was fighting for and why, I always knew when to speak and when to listen, and I always knew where I came from and who I was. I just always knew.
Until I didn’t.
I remember beginning my first public health internship as a teen health council member of Mikva Challenge, a non-profit organization dedicated to youth political advocacy and activism in the city of Chicago. My experience there was ultimately empowering and led to great individual growth. At annual events, however, while we dined among local politicians or our considerably wealthy sponsors, other intern peers of color and I couldn't help but sense a shift in their approach to us.
And then it followed: “So like, what are you?” This question may seem so simple, yet, it always demands a different response from me.
I can’t wrap my head around it to this day. Was it a matter of racial ambiguity or skin tone? How am I to narrow down, or better said– to simplify my heritage, background, ethnicity, or my nationality for that matter–to a clear-cut response, when at times, I don’t even know the depth and complexity of some things myself?
Why is it so important, or relevant?
As a child, I can’t seem to recall ever feeling ashamed of who I was or what I looked like, but I do remember shame being expected of me. In the first grade, I presented a Who Am I poster to my class one afternoon, with my father as a guest. As I stated I was from Axochiapan, Morelos, or Chiautla De Tapia, I immediately got mocked by my peers, and my teacher–who I suppose was just as confused-- only seemed to stare at me like I was some sort of empty abyss. Only my father’s presence kept me together, and towards the end, as he took his guitar out and began playing our music, the tension seemed to cool down, and I no longer had a knot in my throat.
That particular moment showed how my background as a Latina would have a significant impact on my overall identity. The question I continue asking myself, however, is: how much control do I have over the significance of that impact?
Ruiz standing beside her father at Eli Whitney Elementary School, 2006. Photo courtesy of the author.
To stir up my own conversations on the meaning of identity by other Latinx and/or Hispanics, specifically at the college I attend now, the University of Illinois at Chicago, I began by discussing with three good college friends from my Mariachi ensemble at UIC, Ricardo J. Torres Gómez, Diego Torres, and Nathan Cerero.
I recall laughing at the other end of a call with Ricardo, as we commented on the differences between our suburban and urban upbringings. He jokes there is this stereotype for city people, one I’ve heard a million times. “City people are a little bit more aggressive, I’m not sure I completely agree.”
I can understand why this may be expected. Growing up on the West side of Chicago, in the Little Village neighborhood, I can confirm that I was accustomed to the violently charged nature of this city, something that’s given me a bit more of a rough edge as an adult, but also something I’m proactively striving to grow from and change.
Unlike me, Ricardo grew up in Bensenville, Illinois, a suburb he describes as very diverse and racially integrated. I ask him, an upcoming senior and physics major at UIC, how the city environment differs from that of Bensenville. For one, he says in the city there’s a discreet margin between people and their background.
“I feel like there’s a cultural difference when I try to work together in my lab or study groups. It just feels like there’s a difference, like I can’t be Mexican around them ‘cause they won’t get it. It’s kind of weird.”
With no further elaboration needed, I immediately know what he’s talking about. At times, prior knowledge about our culture as Latinx and Hispanics comes into play with our own interactions, so it’s completely understandable that there may be a slight shift on how we interact with those outside of our community.
Diego Torres, who is a recent biology major graduate from UIC- and Ricardo’s older brother, brings up a fair perspective on how race can be a sensitive subject, especially in a college setting. Diego observed that, for students with more discussion-oriented courses, there can be a higher exposure to issues of racial prejudice or discrimination, but because he was a science major, it was slightly easier for him to get by and avoid such conflicts.
Both Diego and Ricardo were born in Mexico, but since Diego was the second oldest of four, I can sense that he experienced a lot more of a societal clash transitioning from Mexico to America. He points out how at times, there seems to be an ongoing war between race groups in the United States, a sort of hunger for power, and that–he believes– is because we are allowed to feed off that power.
Ruiz and her mother celebrated Ruiz’s birthday during the second week of quarantine in Chicago, Illinois, 2020. Photo courtesy of the author.
I immediately came to the realization that this sort of discussion is considered a privilege to many, particularly non-Americans, when in fact, the ability to advocate for and believe in a movement- should be a basic human right. There’s most certainly a heavy neglect, on behalf of the Mexican government and society, towards some of its underrepresented populations, such as the Afro-Mexican or indigenous communities, both of which my mother belongs to.
Perhaps it’s here where the confusion begins. I find it difficult to explain this side of my heritage to people. My mother identifies as an Afro-Mexican, and I do not. To most people, this is an issue relating to emotions of embarrassment or suppression on my behalf, as it appears I chose to not associate with these its and bits of who I am. Then there are those few others who treat Afro-Latinx, Caribbean, and Indigenous as terms of word-play or areas open to questioning, because I may not look the part or be enough.
On my father’s side, there is a lot more Spanish, Indigenous, and French ancestry, hence- my fair skin and dark brown hair. Overall, it’s within reason to say I carry more of his physical characteristics than any resembling my mother. Yet, it’s still too much to process for some, and as a result, I’ve avoided discussing this aspect of my identity for years.
It’s exhausting, although I wouldn’t say that is because race is a sensitive topic for me, as it may very legitimately be to others. It’s much more a matter of having too many unsuccessful interactions with individuals who refuse to be educated on the different terminology used to address identity in the United States. Despite more Americans understanding race as a social construct, our government continues to use race to weigh in on what we deserve and what we do not. Whether that be financial aid, or scholarship funding, it’s fair to say that race has evolved into more of what you look like than what you are.
“There’s this structure that’s built in the United States that is aiming toward incentivizing diversity, and I think it’s a flawed structure, in a lot of ways…” comments Nathan Cerero, a soon-to-graduate history major at UIC. Nathan describes himself as a Latino with a much more Americanized upbringing. He shares my passion for social justice issues, and provided me with a more historically enriched point of view, something I genuinely admire and respect.
In our conversation, we dove into awkward situations we’ve had at school relating to our backgrounds. He recollects a conversation with one of his history professors who was discussing Mexican history with him, and subtly assumed Nathan already knew the information they were discussing. “He was like, well.. You, you know this already. And I was like, I really don’t, but thank you for sharing this with me.”
This moment highlighted Nathan’s very proactive personality, and will to learn about his area of study. Although situations of this sort can be uncomfortable, how we handle them, and how we choose to educate people on not making assumptions based on who we are, or where we come from, can be a powerful way to address racist or prejudiced beliefs that people may bring into their interactions. I can’t help but feel motivated to give another shot at responding to identity-related questions.
However, as the humans we are, we have to acknowledge our mental health and emotional well-being- and we don’t have to be social justice warriors 24/7, 365 days a year. For that, I’m thankful for spaces of refuge, such as our Mariachi ensemble at UIC. Here, we’ve all made it a special space where we can trace our way back to our roots and interact with other Latinx who share a similar passion for Mariachi music… without having to focus so heavily on who we are racially or ethnically.
Mariachi Fuego at the University of Illinois at Chicago. Back line, from left to right: Diego Torres (2). Front Line, from left to right: Ruiz (5), Ricardo J. Torres Gomez (7), Nathan Cerrero (9), 2019. Photo courtesy of the author.
Ricardo remarks on how he’s learned a lot more about Latinx and Hispanic culture in Chicago thanks to this ensemble. He also points out how social experience is not all about being Latinx, it’s not a personality trait we carry within ourselves at all times. Human nature is just not that simple or limited.
“It shouldn’t be so important where you see lines. Where you find ways to categorize and separate people.” He said; “That’s kind of what leads to racism.”
I whole-heartedly agree, and no, this isn’t about being color-blind, or about not acknowledging our history as people of color. It’s about questioning how we’ve allowed our differences to define us to the extent of being tokenized for them. It’s our diversity being unjustly marketed, our struggles being glorified, and our individual characteristics being narrowed down to a race category that doesn’t even describe who we really are.
2020 being the year of the United States Census, we are faced with this sort of identity surveillance once again. The Census Bureau, along with the U.S. Department of Commerce, Economics and Statistics Administration, defines and distinguishes race and ethnicity as follows:
“The Census Bureau defines race as a person’s self-identification with one or more social groups. An individual can report as White, Black or African American, Asian, American Indian and Alaska Native, Native Hawaiian and Other Pacific Islander, or some other race. Survey respondents may report multiple races… Ethnicity determines whether a person is of Hispanic origin or not. For this reason, ethnicity is broken out in two categories, Hispanic or Latino and Not Hispanic or Latino. Hispanics may report as any race.”
“As any race”… I’d say this is the sort of ambiguity we need to discuss.
That being noted, if data-collecting surveys as influential as the U.S. census can’t even bother to acknowledge the ethnic and racial complexity behind the Latinx and Hispanic community, how am I, or any individual for that matter supposed to explain what we are?
There are multiple other platforms that put us in the same gray area as the U.S. Census, including the SAT demographics section, and college or job applications. Acknowledging this form of ignorance brings to light America’s outdated ways. How is it we’re asked to identify so frequently and yet can’t be accurately represented?
Nathan tells me, “From a historical standpoint, I can understand the idea of wanting to objectively get demographics in the United States, because it is important, but one of the things you need to do, especially for any historian, or any person looking into history really– is to look at context.”
Context. The people behind a demographic, or a race category. People like Nathan, Ricardo, or Diego, their stories, their differences, and what they have to say. Eventually, I ask the final question. In that moment, considering all that we’ve discussed together, it feels somewhat of an odd way to conclude, but strangely enough, also a form of closure unlike any other:
“What are you?”
“I’m Mexican. I wouldn’t even say Latino or Hispanic… Then they get confused." - Ricardo J. Torres Gomez.
“I’m Chicano.” - Nathan Cerero.
“Mexican. I think when it comes to race, that’s when I have some doubts, but in terms of ethnicity or where I’m from. Mexico. I’m Mexican. One-hundred percent.” - Diego Torres.
While tying the pieces together for this project, I sit across my father, and I confess to him I’ve had too much time in my hands, attempting to justify why I’ve written so much in my journal, it’s literally word vomit. Despite discussions of ethnic and racial identity somewhat exhausting me when I was younger, I’m thankful for having them and for the support of those who’ve taken me for who I am, without having to elaborate so much.
The Ruiz Family, 2003. Photo courtesy of the author.
I think back to Mr. Riojas, my former music theory professor at the UIC School of Theater and Music, who, within the subtly segregated environment there, made me feel capable of improving as a singer and guitar player, even outside the comfort space of my Mariachi ensemble. His recent death shattered me, but it’s also given me insight on how we need more individuals like him, who supported those who felt behind or excluded- for perhaps not having the same advantages as others around them. His passing has also reminded me of how mysteriously fast time works, and how we must work toward our goals and our passions, because in the time we are in, with the invisible killer that is COVID-19 , we may no longer be able to do that, within the timespan of a week, a day, or a couple hours…
So for that, I take on this aspect of identity in the United States and reopen this discussion, because I’m not alone in this matter, and I hope to be a part of a change that is still progressively growing. The gist of this is not to eliminate current race categories or dismiss discussions on ethnic background. On the contrary, I’m speaking for the inclusion of Latinx and Hispanics who may feel either underrepresented or misrepresented, and I am expressing the shallowness of questions like “what are you?” Yes, we should acknowledge diversity, and by all means embrace it, however, we should do so without exploiting it or fetishizing it.
I am Latina, and I am an activist, a student, a singer, a writer, someone always on the lookout to learn and evolve as an individual. I encourage all those who come across this piece to take some time and reflect, and I ask the Latinx and Hispanic community to come together and advocate for one another.
This piece is dedicated to Doctor Jose Olivier Riojas, who formerly taught at the School of Theatre and Music at the University of Illinois at Chicago. Thank you for seeing my dedication and love for music, among everything else. May you rest in peace.
Cecilia V. Ruiz is a writer and radio journalist. Ruiz joined the journalism and radio-production team at Yollocalli Arts Reach in 2015. She is currently double majoring in forensic psychology and criminology, law and justice (CLJ), and is an active enthusiast and advocate in social and criminal justice issues affecting the city of Chicago.
“Identity Surveillance: An American Obsession” explores the variety of aspects on the topic of identity in America. Ruiz hopes to open a discussion among her readers and inspire future leaders within and outside of her community.
Cecilia V. Ruiz worked on this piece as part of Yollocalli Arts Reach Journalism, storytelling and Radio Internship Program.