¡Tráelo! Bring it! This is the story of a young woman’s search for meaning in her cultural identity. It’s the story of a young woman whose life motto represents her desire for life to bring whatever it may, whether it be cultural obstacles or not, because she knows that she can get through it. This is the story of a struggle to fit into a judgemental and very complicated society. It is the battle between two very different cultures, and the fight to accept that these differences may not always be easily digestible. This story has been in many ways like a mirror for me, and who knows, you may even see your own reflection in it too.
Who am I? That’s a really good question. Well, if you asked me when I was sixteen, I’d have a whole other answer. I might even have a different answer when I’m twenty-five, but my twenty-year-old-Katharine-self will tell you that I am a Hispano-Canadian. My Latina roots also span from Spaniard roots because I have Spanish and Venezuelan in me. What a lot of people may not know is that I also have Trinidadian in me and West-Indian in me.
My brother and I were born here in Canada and so was my mom. Mi abuela was born in Venezuela and she immigrated here when she was eighteen or twenty, so she has been here for a little over fifty years. My great grandfather (abuela’s father) was born in Spain and then my grandfather’s mother was Punjabi which was where the West-Indian comes in. My mom’s father is from Trinidad and he actually came here first, because he is older than mi abuela. He was twenty-seven and she was around twenty years old when they got married. They’ve lived here for most of their lives, but the funny thing is, when you hear them speak about their lives in their home countries, to me it feels like they’ve lived here for five minutes when in reality, they’ve spent all of their lives there. That’s where all of their fondest memories seem to lie. That’s all they talk to me about. My grandparents have lived here for most of their lives, and they’ve never really gone back home, but mi abuela is still very connected to Venezuela, her family is mostly all there. She goes and sends packages to her loved ones who still live there every few weeks, when she can. For me, when I was growing up, it was kind of like although I’ve never been to these places, and I wish I had that cultural experience, I kind of feel like I have. It’s not even like I’ve seen photos- I haven’t seen many photos of these countries but my mom used to travel there all the time: like every few months. The last time I went to Venezuela was when I was eighteen months old, which is also the last time I saw my father because that’s where he lives. I don’t know much about my father, but I do know that he and his whole family were born and raised in Valencia and Miranda. I feel like I’ve been there and me knowing that I will not be able to go to Venezuela, at least not for the next few decades, I feel like I’m missing something. But at the same time, I feel like I’m always going to have these stories. It’s so destroyed over there, but you don’t want to remember that. You want to remember abuela’s stories because she has had a big part in my life, and she has some great memories.
My mom and mi abuela tell me stories all the time about their time in Venezuela. They say that the ride from the airport to the main cities is absolutely stunning. You have the more mountainous regions and the ones that are more aquatic, with more water. You can see beaches and sand for miles and the water is so blue and clear. You can see the black in the lagoons and there are gorgeous waterfalls. My grandmother’s father owned quite a few things and that’s where their wealth came from. Wealth meant more back then that it does there now. They owned a convenience store, and she remembers going every day after school and helping out on the weekends. Sometimes she would steal some of the candy and the food and she would ask herself, “is it really stealing if my parents own the store?” She mentioned that it was at the end of a street, close enough to walk to from home. I would say to her “the scenery of the country and of the town you lived in is absolutely stunning and you’re spending all of your time in a convenience store?” She would tell me that when you grow up and live in a city that is so picturesque to the world, it’s not as fantastic to you because that’s the environment that you were raised in. “You’re used to the beauty by now. But the good thing about Venezuela is that you never really get used to the beauty because there are always more things to discover.”
The next story is a sad one, but it’s the one she tells me the most. Abuela doesn’t like bikes. The reason for this is because her brother was killed on a bike. They were both hit by a truck, the bike and her younger brother, years ago. My grandmother was twelve and her brother was nine at the time. Everybody would call him ángel because something about him seemed unhuman. He seemed like he was a saint. He was born to kind of a Jesus-like effect to make a difference in the lives of those around him. He wasn’t meant to live for a long time because he had so much goodness in him that he wasn’t really even human. That’s what she always tells me. He had the blondest hair – the only one in the family with that blonde hair – and he just seemed like an angel. He passed away and the bike came out of the accident spotless. My grandmother hates the idea of me having a bike, my brother having a bike, riding the bike. She would never put any money towards it because of that circumstance, which is totally understandable. I thought it was uncommon, like “why do you hate bikes?” but I realized that a lot of Latinos that I know, especially the ones in my family, don’t like bikes. Bikes aren’t very common, maybe it’s just in Venezuela? Maybe it’s just in their city, which is Miranda? I don’t know.
The biggest and best thing I remember about my childhood are the TV shows. I blocked out a lot of my childhood and I don’t really remember family things because for as long as I could remember there was a lot of yelling at home. It was yelling and physical, but now the physical has been put aside. My relationship with my mom has gotten better but her purpose in life was to be a teacher and not to be a parent in my opinion. She’s a phenomenal teacher but the nurturing side of her as a mother wasn’t really there. I’ve moved nine times and to four schools. Up until my brother was born it was all hell. It was all bullying at school, and it was never really good at home. It was me being yelled at or people yelling at each other and that’s all I can remember from before I was eight. I mean, I’m sure there were some great trips. For instance, we used to go to Marineland all the time. Those trips were a really good part of my childhood.
Out of all my family members, I would say that I’m the closest with my eleven-year-old brother. I had been begging my mom for a sibling and when I was seven or eight, she finally got pregnant. From the moment he was born, I vowed that we were not going to be like the other family members. He’s going to show up to my house when we’re older and we’re going to get along whether he likes it or not. Once we’re adults we are going to find it in our hearts to forgive each other for what we’ve done, and we won’t fight for stupid things like money. I don’t see myself ever letting him go for any of the reasons my family members have let each other go. I’ve never really been a family person. Blood doesn’t mean everything to me. A lot of my friends have supported me more than my family because I don’t even know half of my family. I feel like I was put on this earth to be a teacher and an educator but also to create my own family.
ADHD and Dyslexia were struggles I faced as a child. I had teachers that yelled at me for trying to get ahead before my IEP was taken away from me. I would try to “get ahead” so that I would in reality just be caught up with what they were doing in class. I knew it would take me longer to catch up so I would put the work in myself to stay as up to date as possible, and that included trying to get ahead, but my teachers did not seem to understand that. In high school I started getting better at languages and discovered my love for them and that’s when I discovered I want to be a teacher. I used to go to school with my mom and watching her work as a teacher made me realize that that is what I want to do.
I identify strongly with my Hispanic side, especially around people who aren’t Hispanic. When I am around people who are native and speak the language natively, I feel like I’m a bit ‘whitewashed’ for lack of a better word. My culture, I know it’s a part of me, but I don’t fit in when people are speaking so fluently. A few years ago, I did the Explore program as a student. I went to Québec City and there were students from different parts of the world. The ones I’m going to talk about are from the Dominican Republic, from Colombia, from Mexico but mainly the Dominican Republic. When I was there, I was at the top of the French levels, in the highest class and I was so proud of myself. I would help some of my friends who didn’t speak French with their speaking and with their work. Then Spanish comes along, and I know that I can hold a sentence, but it wasn’t until then that I realized how little I actually know. My brother and I were in Spanish school as kids because my grandmother always asked me to participate in these classes until the eighth grade. Then high school happened, and it wasn’t until the eleventh to twelfth grade that Explore took place and I’m all of a sudden surrounded by so many people from the Dominican. They’re all friendly and that’s actually where I got my nickname Kat. Everyone started calling me Kat after that. Anybody that I know who is Hispanic natively or it’s part of their ethnicity they will call me Kat now because of this experience, so I felt like I fit in with them. But when they would speak, I would think to myself, “oh it’s so beautiful, it’s so fluent” and I desperately wanted to join them in the fluidity of the language they were using. Whether it was colloquial or not, I would say something so basic like something with the word “bathroom” in it for instance, and they would say, “well that’s not technically how we’d say it” and I would think to myself “Seriously? I got THAT wrong?” The thing is, I have the accent. I really feel like I have the accent. I’m pretty good with languages, with picking up the pronunciation so usually it will trick people into thinking I know what I’m saying. It feels like I could just say anything and people who do not speak the language think I’m speaking so beautifully when really, I’m saying nothing. When I was in a crowd with them or if we were just hanging out about to play pool, one friend who I called caballo, e would always be the one to make fun of my Spanish the most so I would respond with “Well, let me make fun of your English then” and he’d respond with “No no no, you can’t do that”. But in a way even though he was just making fun and it was all fun and games, it really did open my eyes. Now that I’m taking Hispanic Studies courses at Glendon I’m also realizing this even more: I’m realizing how much I don’t know. There are some basic phrases that I always say to mi abuela and that I don’t know why I’m saying them but it’s just what she raised me on and I’m like wow I really don’t know anything when I use them outside of my family setting. Contrarily, when I’m around people who aren’t Hispanic, I feel good. Maybe they assume I know what I’m saying because sometimes you can hear it in my voice. The more I speak French for instance, the more of a French accent comes out and the same happens with Spanish. I know the basic words that most people would know but when I say them around people who aren’t Hispanic, they act so amazed. They are mesmerized and say things like “wow this is so foreign to me. You really know what you’re talking about.” It’s cool to them and that’s when I get all excited because you know, I’m proud to be Hispanic, so proud, but unfortunately, that pride diminishes when I’m around people that I know genuinely embody what that means. And I don’t think that I do. I feel like I’m faking it sometimes. That is especially why I’m getting into it now. I’m immersing myself in the culture now. Better late than never is what I think. I spent so long with a big head thinking “ok I have that in my blood and that’s good enough. I understand.” I’ve always understood Spanish very well and I know that I can speak with people from any Hispanic country. I understand what they’re saying except for maybe some of the slang native to their region but for the most part, I know. Same with when mi abuela’s talking to me. But when I start to speak it, that’s when I have some problems. I always think that I’m butchering it. I don’t know if it’s nerves or what it is really, and so for me, I feel like it is important to recognize. It’s important to recognize that yes, it’s a part of my culture, but I still have a lot to learn. It doesn’t matter if it’s a part of mine or somebody else’s. I’ve learned to kind of lessen the size of my head if that makes sense.
This is the part I related to the most. I speak Italian fluently, but as the years went by, I’ve developed a “Canadian” accent due to my more frequent use of Canadian English. Sometimes my family will joke around with the way I pronounce words, namely words with “r” sounds because I have what Italians call an “erre moscia” which translates to a weak “r”. I live and breathe Italian culture every day, despite the fact that I live in Canada. There is nothing worse than being surrounded by people who undermine such an integral part of my identity. This part of the interview felt like I was looking in a mirror, and the next one felt the same.
When we went to Barcelona for a Europe trip in high school and my friends asked me to order something for them, I went up to the teller and I was so nervous even though I know what I was going to say. I was reading the menu and some of these meats and stuff that were available, I didn’t know how to translate for my friends. I didn’t know what they were in English and at this time I was vegetarian so I would say to my friends “wow I don’t even eat this stuff, so I don’t know what to tell you.” We figured out what we wanted so I tried ordering in Spanish, and you know what the teller says to me? The teller says to me “we speak English here. It’s ok if you want to speak English.” For me THAT is the hardest part. I wish there was more of an understanding worldwide that people try to learn other languages. It’s not like they couldn’t understand what I was saying because the foundation of the words that I was saying were normal but again, maybe in Barcelona they word things differently. The point is that I’d be saying something and instead of understanding and trying to help me with that it was kind of like “oh yeah just give up. I know you speak English so let’s just speak English so we can just move on”. It made me feel – I mean it was one thing when it was people my age at Explore where we’d joke around- but somebody you don’t know, who’s an adult, who says that comment, it’s kind of like, “ok I guess I should just give up.” The toughest part is that, like I said, part of my family is from Spain. Not Barcelona, part but Spain all the less. And they told me to stick to English.
This happened to me too. I was in Italy and I went shopping for my brother with my aunt. The teller heard my accent when I was asking him what they had in stock. He immediately asked me where I was from so I responded with “I’m from here!” to see what he would say. He said, “no you’re not. Where are you really from?” So, I had to say that I’m from Canada and he said that that made sense. He started to speak English with me, so I politely told him, “thanks, but I speak Italian just fine.” My Italian was way better than his English too, which is the funny thing. Italian is also my first language, so it hurt quite a bit. It happens every time I speak a language other than English. I wish there was more acceptance of the fact that it takes courage to strike up conversation in a foreign language. Language inclusivity is a huge problem.
I feel like I conflict with Canadian culture and Hispanic culture, but I don’t even understand what Canadian culture is. Here’s the thing with me, when people say this is from Canada or ask me to name Canadian staples, I can only think of maple syrup and bacon and I know I should be able to come up with something more than that. I’ll meet people from, say, the Dominican and they’ll ask me about a Canadian stereotype, and I actually don’t know what they are talking about, so I don’t know where I stand. I feel more drawn to my Venezuelan side, but I’ve spent most of my life just hearing about Venezuela because of my grandmother and the stories she has told me and I eat a lot more of that food like arepas because I could literally take out cornflower today, make them myself and that’s it. I don’t know how to make Trinidadian food.
Essentially, in Venezuela we’re big on corn meal. I don’t know if that’s all of Latin America, but in Venezuela, if you don’t have cornmeal in your house, what are you doing? Another traditional Venezuelan food are hallacas venezolanas. It’s a cornmeal dough and you wrap it in banana leaf so it’s kind of greenish. You stuff the dough with fillings, usually it’s stuff like beef. Abuela would always do chicken for me because when I was younger, I didn’t want to eat beef. I wanted chicken instead, so she kind of changed it. She prefers beef, pork, olives and capers and sometimes you also put in raisins, which I’d say is the more traditional way to make them. I like when she cooks. It’s usually all traditional as well. Every nation has its staple bread. You have, a Naan for India. You have Roti for a lot of the Caribbean Sea and so on. Anything with cornmeal is what makes the bread of Venezuela.
We usually make arepas or hallacas at Christmas, but it’s not just Christmas. It’s something we eat year-round. But in terms of holidays, Christmas is the one we have a big meal for. We usually make our big Christmas meal on Christmas day, and my mom makes turkey. I think that is more of an Americanized thing but again, we celebrate on Christmas day and not on Christmas Eve like I feel like most people tend to do. We would go over to abuela’s house and we would bring some food to her house. She would also make food and depending on what was going on, she would either give it to us to take home or we would all eat it together.
Today, my grandparents suffer from severe mental incapacities. Abuela is schizophrenic and has bipolar disorder. My grandfather suffered from a stroke and now is in a long-term care home. I have my grandmother to thank for my loca, open personality and my ability to talk to people because without her, I would not have my social side. Every other family member is quiet. My grandfather lived with us for almost a decade, but abuela never lived with us. I would see and spend time with abuela much more until my grandfather left the house. Right now, in my home it’s only me, my mom, my brother and my puppies. It’s weird because it took my grandfather moving out for me to actually get to know him better in good and bad ways. Once he stopped living here, it hasn’t been the same between abuela and I.
So, who am I? I’m Katharine Martinez. I love languages. I’m an overthinker. I’m empathetic. If you give me a debate topic, I will debate every side of the argument. I am an older sister, and a friend. I am in a happy relationship with my boyfriend, and I can actually see a future there. I am a hard worker who seeks stability in life. I’ve never had stability in my family life and that’s what I am most looking forward to. I don’t think I could be a housewife, although that is such an admirable thing to do, but I know that working is part of my purpose. Every woman that I know on the Hispanic side of my family is working whether it be a stable job or a small job. The women are much harder workers than the men in my family. Like I said before, watching my mom teach and developing my passion for languages has made me realize that I want to be a teacher. I chose this path for consistency. It’s always been what I wanted to do. I see myself maybe getting engaged and not getting married until I get a contract. I’m hoping to travel a bit when I’m not teaching. Married or single. I’ve always wanted to do Teachers Without Borders. Being in a classroom, even if it’s online like it is in a lot of cases these days, is where my heart lies. In ten years, I hope to be happily married, because I haven’t seen that. It’s not a thing in my family, but I want that for me. I am curious about my ancestry, but I’ve also learned to be happy with what I know and what I have. Most importantly, I am Hispano-Canadian. It’s a huge part of me and it always will be.