Empanadas, Franglais, and Names

When getting to know people, I’ve found that there is a question that often comes up in some form: “Where are you from?” My answer when the question arises is slightly more complicated than most, and after testing out a few variations, it has evolved into something along the lines of: “I’m mixed; I’m half Ecuadorian and half French-Canadian.” This usually intrigues people, and on multiple occasions, “oooh” has been part of their response, followed by further questions. I appreciate the interest, which in my experience has always been affable, but I also find it somewhat surprising, as what seems unique and intriguing to others is utterly normal to me.

Although not the reason why I was given Sophia as my first name, it is an oddly felicitous representation of my mixed cultural heritage, being the perfect blend of Sofía and Sophie, the Spanish and French versions of the name respectively. The rest of my name also reflects this, my middle name Isabelle having a French spelling and my last name Rosero being fairly common in Ecuador and originating in Spain—although I typically Americanize it by pronouncing the “s” with a “z” sound and am not entirely confident in pronouncing it accurately in Spanish.

In all honesty, I don’t know very much about either Ecuadorian or French-Canadian culture. I usually find that the deepest ways I connect to my cultures are in small pieces of culture associated with my family. My favorite example is food. At my paternal family’s gatherings, we always eat empanadas before our main meal, whereas at my maternal family’s gatherings, we often have a board of cheese, sausage, and crackers. When both sides of my family are present, we share both appetizers, which are very popular among everyone, a small demonstration of food effortlessly bringing people together.

Another way I’ve found connection is through language. Having taken French in middle school and currently taking Spanish, I frequently notice similarities between the two. Occasionally, I can think of a word in one but not the other, or I can only recall pronunciation rules for one. What remains constant, though, is my love of hearing the sound of both languages being spoken and my enjoyment of having conversations with family members in these languages. However, I am far from fluent in either, which at times makes me feel distant from my cultures but simultaneously brings me closer to my cousins, who share the experience of being “no sabo kids,” a term referring to Hispanic people who do not speak Spanish fluently. It comes from an incorrect translation of “I don’t know,” which instead should be “no sé,” because saber (to know) is an irregular verb. The ignorance of the language and culture that the term implies can sometimes upset me, and “no sabo” has come to represent for me a feeling of insufficiency and separation, as though it is impossible to be authentically Hispanic enough.This experience—and the judgment and isolation from Hispanic culture that can be attached to it—is something my cousins and I can relate over that I’ve never truly shared with anyone else.

Nevertheless, I feel comfortable overall with an identity that will never be neatly defined, one that is always developing through small moments of cultural connection. Sometimes, these small moments are seemingly random, such as happening upon a copy of Afterlife by Julia Alvarez in my maternal grandmother’s book collection, which led me to experience elements of a culture similar to mine being reflected in literature for one of the first times. The detail that stands out most in my memory is the mention of singing Las Mañanitas for a birthday, something that my family does which I had not realized existed outside of my own family. It was interesting for me to be able to relate to something culturally that I didn’t experience through my family, especially since this happens fairly rarely. I think that diverse representation in art is important in order to reflect our multicultural society, hopefully helping people to become more empathetic and feel more connected and less invisible, as Afterlife helped do for me. 

My mixed cultural heritage is an integral part of my background. My family is what I cherish most in my life, and it is a part of my family’s story. But ultimately, it is just that: a part, not the whole story, nor the entirety of who I am. One of the most important things it has shown me is our shared humanity—the intrinsic personhood within each individual regardless of cultural background. It has also shown me that part of this shared humanity is the complexity of identity, of which cultural background can be a significant part. Having respect for one another’s cultural identities, however complicated they may be, is vital, logical, and beautiful. Throughout all the complexity, the thing that it all comes back to for me is simple: how much I love spending time with my family.