Reclaiming my Latinidad: How I lost and found the written accent in my surname

Sister Cities mural in El Paso, texas. Remlezca, 2016.

It all started twenty years ago. I attended third grade in Mexico and had never thought much about the correct spelling of the name I inherited from my father. We were in a parent-teacher meeting — probably discussing my failing grades in English class, the bully of the week, or that I might need eyeglasses. The professor jotted my name down and my father interrupted his expertly prepared speech.

“Excuse me. Monárrez is written with an accent over the ‘a’.”

Profesor Baltazar — the man I recognized as the ultimate authority on grammatical rules — went back to his notes and shook his head. He stared down at the name. I shifted in my third grader’s seat. The two male authorities in my life were clashing, and I was dying to know who was right. My father had taught me to write our name with that little mark above the ‘a’, but was it grammatically correct?

The professor smiled, “You’re right. If we look at the grammatical rule, the name needs that written accent.” With a graceful flick of his wrist, he wrote the missing sign over my name.

I exchanged a grin with my father before the official meeting started. I sat up straighter after that gesture, my chest full of a feeling I didn’t recognize. I didn’t know it back then, but I was proud. Dad stood up for our name and validated the way we spelled it. I was sure that, after that moment, I’d never doubt how I should write our family’s name.

But all of that changed when I moved to the United States.

Across the Río Bravo, I speak my name and it draws a blank on the faces of clerks, office managers, or anyone that hears it. Come again? Did you say Morales? Can you spell that? By now, I’m used to spelling my name phonetically immediately after I say it, but it wasn’t always like that.

Once upon a time, I was a freshly arrived expat in Dallas. Even if my homeland was but only nine hours away, there was still a cultural shock. Unlike in the border culture of El Paso-Ciudad Juarez, people didn’t speak Spanish at every other establishment, and suddenly I had a pronounced accent easily spotted by the locals. Still shaky in my English and struggling to find my footing, I wanted to conquer the language and adapt faster to this new city and country. A year into my expatriatism, I asked my parents for advice. They said to stop hanging onto Mexico. My father said to do the best I could to blend in.

So I did.

I looked at my name first. English doesn’t have written accents. It’s a grammatical symbol that doesn’t belong in the country, that didn’t belong to me. If I wanted to blend into the culture and adapt, it all started with my name. I removed my accent, put it in a little box, and buried it away. I shrugged off la tricolor and put on the red, white, and blue. I didn’t know it then, but I was putting a piece of my identity away too and silencing my Latinidad.

Time passed, and my attempts to fit into the new culture worked. I celebrated American holidays, spoke better English, and tried to mimic the speech of my fellow Texans. Success in this unknown country felt more attainable than before. But I felt like something was missing. I still ached for home as if I had left yesterday. Life slugged along.

I didn’t discover what I was missing until I got the chance to work among a group of strong, immigrant women. The team was conformed by people from different nationalities — Brazilian, French, Mexican, and many others later in my career there. They received me with open arms and enveloped me in their own metaculture. They seemed far better adjusted than me, wiser, and a lot stronger. Overall, they seemed happier than me.

Paseo de Las Luces, Ciudad Juárez. Ivanna Leos.

I wondered for months what their secret was. Was it the fact that they’d been at the job a lot longer than I had? Was it an age thing? Or just the fact that they had been in this city far longer than I had? The surprising thing was that their secret wasn’t a secret at all. They just were unapologetically themselves. At work, at home, and in this country that they were claiming for themselves. My fellow expatriates didn’t mute themselves just because they had moved to a new country. They owned their differences and never put their own culture away. They kissed good morning once on the cheek — twice for the French — like I used to back home. They spoke their native language and wore it like a badge of honor. And most importantly, they spelled their names with no changes to fit English. Working with them taught me a valuable lesson: don’t change yourself to adapt faster to a new country.

After this realization, I took a second look at my new life. I wasn’t going back to Mexico anytime soon, but that didn’t mean that the USA couldn’t be my home while staying true to myself. Since then, I set out to rediscover myself and reclaim my Latinidad. I embraced my culture again, and alongside it, I embraced the American culture as well. I read in both Spanish and English. I celebrated 4th of July and Thanksgiving, Día de los Muertos and Latinx/e Heritage Month. I spoke Spanish and English and took pride in my accent. And most importantly, I started adding the written accent to my surname again.

I took back my heritage and my identity has evolved into this proud mixture of Mexican-American traditions, coexisting in the same space. I’m not the same person I was before I came here. My family in Mexico says that I became more Mexican after I left. And that is true. Living far away from my homeland made me reflect on my roots. I was born in the USA, but I was Mexican far before that. My Latinidad belongs in this land, not just because it was once ours, but because I have every right to be here. My father now jokes and says that I’ve come to reclaim the lost territories. And perhaps I have.