Wild Tongues Can't Be Tamed by Saraciea J. Fennell

Author:Saraciea J. Fennell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Flatiron Books

Cuban Impostor Syndrome

Zakiya N. Jamal

Growing up on Long Island, my high school was more diverse than others but still overwhelmingly white, so when a new guy in school mentioned he was Cuban, I couldn’t help being excited.

“I’m Cuban too!” I said without hesitation.

Now, I can remember so clearly the look of skepticism on his face and in his voice when he said, “Really?” But back then, I either didn’t notice or decided to brush it aside.

“Yeah,” I told him. “My grandma’s from Cuba.”

“Okay.”

That was it. End of conversation. He turned away from me.

I hadn’t been looking for someone who was Cuban or someone I’d have something in common with, but when I found him, I thought it was really cool. For the briefest of moments, I considered telling him about the best Cuban restaurants in the area and asking him if he knew the same music I’d always hear at family parties. I wanted to ask if he pronounced plantains the right way (it’s plan-tins, not plan-tains). I felt like there was so much for us to discuss, and yet he didn’t feel that way at all. Instead, I was dismissed as if my being Cuban was unbelievable, which is almost laughable to me now.

The boy was white-passing. He had blond hair and pale skin and, like me, no one would have ever guessed by looking at him that he was Cuban. But while I didn’t question his ethnicity because of his race, he didn’t offer me the same courtesy. The dismissal made me feel like I’d been given a Cuban test and failed.

At the time, my mind didn’t automatically go to racism or colorism. Though my grandma is as dark as I am, the members of our family come in all shades, and some are even white-passing, like the boy in my school. Although we looked different, we were all treated the same. I was never made to feel less than or even teased because of what I looked like. We were all Cuban, and we were all equal.

Or at least I thought we were.

After that conversation with the boy in my school, my eyes were opened. I didn’t have the words for it yet, but I knew it was my Blackness that cast doubt on my authenticity as a Cuban person. I knew that if one of my lighter-skinned cousins had met this boy, he probably wouldn’t have dismissed them.

The realization was a slow unraveling in me that led to what I now refer to as my Cuban Impostor Syndrome. Similar to the way I would often feel like I couldn’t call myself a writer because I wasn’t published, I started to think I couldn’t say I was Cuban because I didn’t fit the mold of what a Cuban should be.

It started with my race, but then started to spiral. I began comparing myself to the other Latinx people around me. On my street, there were two other Latinx families. One I didn’t know very well, but the other was close friends with my aunt and cousin whose home my mother and I later moved into.

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