Jazmin — Fosforo | Revista

Jazmin Lopez, ’26

The Struggle of Being a Hyphen: Stuck Between Two Worlds

“Your daughter is doing especially well in my class. She’s reading at an advanced level and is grasping the language very well,” my English teacher states, smiling down at us.

It’s my third-grade teacher conference. The air is stale and stuffy; papers are scattered across the table, including my progress report: all A’s with an A+ in English. Across from my mother and me, in stiff plastic chairs, sits my English teacher alongside an interpreter. The interpreter is there for my mother, translating word-for-word what my teacher says. I understood her immediately, but my mother had to wait for the translation. Looking up at my mother, her face changes from confusion to delight as the interpreter restates my teacher's phrase. She raises her eyebrows, acknowledging my teacher, and nods toward me, smiling. The pride on her face is clear, and I flash a smile back.

My mother grew up in Durango, Mexico. She attended school only up until the third grade, leaving her education behind to work. She moved to the United States at sixteen, leaving her home, family, friends, and everything she had ever known. Her accent is heavy, resting on her shoulders and dropping bright red arrows all around her, exclaiming that she cannot speak English. She is not native to the United States. She does not claim McDonald’s or Starbucks. She is not drenched in red, white, and blue. She is Mexican, through and through.

With a sharp whip of her tongue, Spanish flowed out like honey. It was swift and short—I couldn’t keep up. When I tried to mirror the swiftness of her tongue, the words felt like tar: slow and heavy. It sounded like a jumble of words where only a few phrases stood out, never enough to keep up with her. She would address me in Spanish, but at school, surrounded by my peers and teachers, English dominated.

At school, my class was made up predominantly of Mexican students, all of whom had Spanish as a first language. Our school held ELL, a course intended to help assimilate students into the English language.

I was enrolled in ELL for one semester in the second grade. There, surrounded by flashcards and Skittles used as rewards, I fought to prove that I was not stupid—that I understood English. Looking around the room at students struggling to read kindergarten-level phrases in English, I intended to transcend the Spanish language and move away from kids struggling to speak basic sentences. I wanted to be better, not only for myself but for my mother, who constantly pushed me to work hard in school. For my mother, who sacrificed her own education for mine. For my mother, who couldn’t understand my homework. For my mother, who couldn’t hold an English conversation longer than three minutes. I did it all for her. And I succeeded.

With a wave and the slam of a door, I was welcomed into the general education classroom with open arms. Standing in the doorway between both rooms, I looked back and forth, wondering what I was truly losing—until my English teacher beckoned me over, and I walked forward, leaving my ELL class behind. I was deemed worthy enough to exist in a classroom that spoke only English and looked down on Spanish. I was accepted. I expected to be happy; I had worked hard for this very moment. But I found myself scared, not only of a new classroom, but of a different challenge: the challenge of change. Was I really good enough to be here?

The term “Mexican-American” stands for a citizen of the United States with Mexican descent. It perfectly defines me: a mix of two cultures, two countries, two languages, and two groups of people. Yet the hyphen between the two words separates them, allowing no overlap. And for a long time, I’ve felt that the hyphen is who I really am. That small dash is stuck between two worlds. And so am I.

When I was younger, I believed that Spanish was a universal language. Everyone around me spoke it, even if just a little. Spanish seemed to connect us. My mother would communicate in Spanish only, so I understood it very well, but that changed in elementary school. There, our teachers looked to erase our accents. They taped our mouths shut and implanted a voice box full of English phrases. They removed pieces of us, bit by bit without us seeing it, until we were bland—robbed of culture and language.

At school I was instructed to speak English; at home I was instructed to speak Spanish. It was a constant war in my head over which language to speak. I was forced to conform in both places, never allowed to speak whichever language I wanted. My mother and I drifted apart. I couldn’t understand her every word, and I didn’t know if I wanted to.

Through books and school assignments, I advanced in the English language. My accent slipped away in bits and pieces until, with a flourish of time and change, it was practically erased.

I spoke perfect English, but my Spanish had worsened. Over time, I felt my identity disappearing. When my tía and mom would converse, I’d open my book. Reading through chapters and chapters of American worlds, I imagined myself becoming one with them. I imagined living outside of impoverished neighborhoods, away from hardship and struggle. In those books, I was blonde, blue-eyed, and free. I was American.

I was practically there; the bridge between Mexican and American was tipping, leaning heavily toward the American side. My mother was reaching for me from the other side of the bridge, calling out to me in Spanish, but I couldn’t reach her. I didn’t know if I could make it back to her side.

That was true until my junior year of high school.

I was pre-enrolled in AP Spanish Language and Culture. The course was required since my mother primarily spoke Spanish and I had already taken a Spanish Heritage class. My teacher was from Spain and spoke a different dialect of Spanish than I was used to. I was less than excited; I didn’t think I needed to learn Spanish. I knew enough to get by, and besides, this wasn’t the regional Spanish I knew.

Yet as time went on, I was speaking more Spanish than I had in the previous five years of my life. The class involved heavy participation, which I offered begrudgingly at first, terrified of being judged for knowing less than my classmates. But the class peeled the tape from my mouth, freeing me from the bounds wrapped around my accent and voice. I’d speak to my mom about the class, telling her about my teacher's silly antics—and I did so in Spanish. I felt the pressure lifting off my shoulders. My tongue wasn’t made of cement anymore, and my Spanish was vastly improving.

That coming fall, when selecting my senior classes, my top choice for an elective was AP Spanish Literature and Culture. The class was much harder than anticipated, and the workload was much heavier than the previous year's. Yet I enjoyed it. From José Martí to Isabel Allende, I dived headfirst into the literature, emerging for only moments at a time. I let the words enfold me, hoping they’d transform not only my vocabulary but my soul. The words drifted off the page until they were no longer just black ink, but the embodiment of a heritage I had once denied myself. Every day I’d tell my mother about the book we were reading. She could finally relate to and understand what I was engaging with at school. She would nod and smile, seeing my passion for the language in which she had always been most confident.

Pride illuminated my mother's face. She was glad I was not only immersing myself in her language, but her culture. I was attempting to rebuild our relationship, forming structures that united us, through language.

I hold that class close to my heart, not only for expanding my Spanish vocabulary, but for welcoming me back into a culture that had been lost in the depths of my mind for so long.

As a Mexican-American, I used to hate feeling like I had to choose between two sides. Tugging on both at once, I felt snapped in the middle. Parts of me landed on each side, but I’m learning to pick those pieces up and reconfigure myself: whole, beautiful, and proudly connected by the hyphen.

Número 21 — 2026

The Struggle of Being a Hyphen: Stuck Between Two Worlds

︎︎︎ Contents | Índice

︎︎︎ Contents | Índice