Mi Latinidad: Between Peru and France

When people ask me where I come from, the answer is always complicated. Unless I leave part of my identity out of the explanation, it will require more than one sentence. Let me explain: I was born in Peru and raised by a French grandmother. My family and my social circle were almost entirely Peruvian, but my formal education was done through the French school system. 

Through my formative years, I felt a pull to choose between two nationalities, cultural identities, and languages. Due to the respect and admiration towards the French language and culture I always encountered in Lima, I grew up to admire the prestige of my foreignness. Peruvian land felt like home, albeit an uncomfortable one. 

I always felt I wasn’t like other Peruvians, that my mentality was slightly different. When the time came to choose a place for University, I chose what I had come to see as a promised land: France. It was a tough decision. I left my family and country behind at the age of 18. 

I did my best to integrate. My lack of accent allowed me to seamlessly navigate French society without having to necessarily disclose my origins. I felt free to think and say what I wanted in a society that was not as concerned about religion and customs, or about gender stereotypes. Yet something was missing for me. I felt uncomfortable when having to accept that I was a foreigner. It was a familiar feeling of not fitting in.

It took years for me to notice what happened to my body when I said: “I come from Peru”. A slight bracing sensation. Preparing myself for the inevitable surprise and the questions that usually came after that: “Are you from Peru? Oh, how cute! Do you own a llama?” “No, you can’t be from Peru. You’re too white!” “Had you seen this iPhone before coming to Europe?” “Oh, I saw a documentary on the Peruvian ‘favelas’ the other day. People are so poor yet so welcoming! It’s truly humbling!” “Machu Picchu! Haha! How bizarre are those names!” “Peru? Where in Africa is that?”

From the simplest, most well-intended comment to the most openly dismissive one, what was missing from all those interactions was genuine and respectful curiosity. Without stereotypes or generalisations. I couldn’t help but compare them to the comments I got from Peruvians when I mentioned I was currently living in France: “Oh, how amazing! I always dreamed of going to Paris!” “I love French cuisine and their music! I just bought an Edith Piaf album.” “When I went there a few years ago, I was impressed by how they blended modernity and traditional architecture in their museums.” “Oh! The land of the Revolution and Human Rights!” “France has a fascinating history.”

I understood the imbalance in these reactions. We, Peruvians, admire the French, and they don’t even know who we are. Even though I was in denial, I had known it all along through the attitudes and comments of Peruvian and French teachers. Through my years of living in different French cities. I  hadn’t identified this uneasy feeling of shame rising from the ashes of colonial power and eurocentrism. It couldn’t be clearer: everything European is considered more civilised and polished, thus better and more deserving of time and attention.

I had spent years studying Sociology and Political Science, trying to understand the power relations in our societies, but It only clicked when I started my  journey to counselling training. As I understood the inner workings of shame and how we internalise messages from our environment, I started to see the way in which we can reproduce post-colonial power relations within ourselves, negatively affecting the most marginalised sides of our identity. 

Shame is a slippery feeling; it hurts and makes us want to hide. My psyche survived by burying the disrespected part of my identity, while exalting and assimilating to the admired side of me. I became a ‘fake French’, Always a little bit too passionate and loud, always a little bit too emotional. Those became ‘problematic’ sides of my personality.

There is no spark in a glass of rosé. Not if your feet aren’t moving to the lively rhythm of a cumbia.

When I opened my eyes to this hurtful reality, I noticed I had stopped dancing. I hadn’t laughed until my belly ached with a group of people for years. I spent my nights out calmly navigating intellectual conversations with a glass of wine between my fingers like the French do. And I was bored out of my mind.

There is no spark in a glass of rosé. Not if your feet aren’t moving to the lively rhythm of a cumbia. Something was missing. A part of me wasn’t getting what it needed. I could only find it, I would later discover, in that familiarity of Latinx banter. Loud dark humour and the feeling of living in my body, instead of my head.

I spent years trying to reconnect to this lost side of my cultural identity. It wasn’t easy, as in its place lived an emptiness where all the praise of Frenchness I had heard throughout the years seemed to echo loudly. 

In becoming a counsellor and exploring more of my own identity, I thought it was time this changed. Trying to stop judging myself for the choices I had made, I tried to take up dancing again. Embracing my expressive side, I started saying what I felt and thought and I made an effort to have more contact with Latin American people. 

I slowly regained that fire that lives in my belly and my feet. A deep-felt connection to heritage. I became unafraid of that loud expression of who I am, unafraid of letting my emotions flow. I had been told that was unsightly behaviour, and for many years I believed it. I had been told to aspire to be level-headed, cold and intellectual. But I am not; it was time I learned to love myself.

I certainly feel ashamed to have rejected my Latinidad for so long. To have reduced it to a stereotype of my identity, only representing loudness and disorder. I now realise it brings me more happiness than anything else - through contact, connection, spirituality, heritage and family. My Latinidad is my capacity to experience and express pure unbridled joy. 

The language of my heart is frañol and I am not hurt when I’m the only one that understands it anymore.

Today, I am still negotiating the level of spice in my speech and the directness of my tone. Always considering how much of me I present as French, and how much remains Peruvian. I have started not telling people where I come from, or presenting as one or the other alternatively. I find that I am more comfortable with leaving people without knowing about my complex background when it suits me. 

I am still on the journey of self-discovery. I appreciate the opportunities that both sides give me for expressing myself and navigating multicultural environments. I am much more comfortable with not fully belonging to any of those identities. Being in between, freeing myself of mental borders has been liberating. The language of my heart is frañol and I am not hurt when I’m the only one that understands it anymore.