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It’s 6 p.m. on a Tuesday at La Doña Cervecería, a popular, north Minneapolis brewery filled with Latin culture and food. People are trickling in for a free Spanish conversation group called 

, which simply means “let’s talk.” 

Katelyn Canizares, a Minnesota transplant from Texas, is here to brush up on her Spanish. Her grandparents are Latino immigrants and understanding the language, she says, has helped her to better know them. “The only way that their stories will continue on,” she said, “is if we know them and we can share that.”

I feel that cultural pull every day. I’m a Latina who did not grow up speaking Spanish at home and I’ve long wondered why that vital link to my heritage wasn't passed on to me or my siblings. I decided to ask the one person who could answer the question — my dad, Roberto Bari.  

His family moved to Minnesota from Puerto Rico in the 1950s when he was 10. He and his siblings were encouraged to speak English as much as they could to fit in, make friends and do well. Fast forward, my dad met my mom Sonja, a beautiful woman from a mostly Norwegian family. They married and had my sister, brother and me. We were affectionately called their “Puerto-wegian” kids.

We were an English-speaking family very proud of our Puerto Rican roots. My mom learned to make many traditional Puerto Rican meals. My dad’s personality is undeniably Latino, yet we lived as an English-speaking family in a predominantly white, middle-class neighborhood outside of Minneapolis. 

My parents spoke English to each other and my dad was the only noticeably brown man in our neighborhood.   

He was part of a generation celebrated for fitting in. I understood that, but as someone who loves to travel and who deeply values being part of a diverse and multicultural country, I still get frustrated he didn’t pass on his home language.  

I’ve talked about this with my siblings, cousins and even a therapist. Many biracial people and children of immigrants deal with complicated feelings around cultural identity — but I decided it was time to talk with my dad.

We sat at his kitchen table to chat. I was nervous and my dad was exactly how many 78-year-old fathers are with their kids. He drank his Coke and paused every once in a while to point out something his beloved dog Stella was up to. I briefed him on what I was writing about and told him for the first time – I’ve never really felt Puerto Rican.

“I guess the best way to put it was we didn’t really feel Puerto Rican, because we were just an American family in an American world,” he said.

I was stunned. I didn’t imagine he’d ever say this, and so straightforward. He explained that the majority of our friends and neighbors were white people – and so my sister, brother and I were mostly raised like white kids in a white world.

I asked if he ever thought about teaching us kids Spanish.

“No, I really didn’t. I became a primary English-speaking person. I never really gave it much of a thought to have you guys learn the language.”

I thought about a couple therapy bills I’d like to submit for a refund.

I never imagined this conversation would be so straightforward and unemotional. My dad explained his experiences — as a Puerto Rican man in Minnesota, a minority in his workplace, a husband to a white wife, and a dad to three biracial kids. His sensibilities were so reasonable.

Cultural identity is deeply personal — it is to me. And many people tie a heritage language to their identities and family history.

has one of the world’s largest Spanish-speaking populations,

 and of the Hispanic people who do not speak Spanish — about half of them said they were shamed for it,

 according to surveys by the Pew Research Center

University of Minnesota psychologist and associate professor Juan Del Toro studies human development as it relates to identity and racial discrimination. He explained that many nonwhite racial-ethnic groups experience a pressure to speak their heritage language in order to authenticate their identity.

“Why would language be a key component for identity?” he asked. “We don’t expect that from white Americans.”

Del Toro explained the long tensions around the border and people speaking English with accents likely have a lot to do with why some Latino immigrants felt they needed to quickly embrace the English language.

I told him I wonder a lot if I am Latina enough and have even thought about getting another degree in Spanish. He told me I was putting too much pressure on myself, that people don’t speak their family’s heritage language for a lot of reasons, including racism or adapting to their new country.

The conversation with my dad helped me understand his experience and about a generation of people who wanted the best for their kids in the United States. I will probably still struggle for a while.

I told my dad I’ve long wondered if I am Latina “enough” and asked if he thinks of me as his Latina daughter.   

“You’re my daughter,” he said. “You’re all my kids. That’s pretty much the way I look at it.”   

Jessica Bari is a senior producer for MPR News.

Jessica Bari

Author

Many biracial people and children of immigrants deal with complicated feelings around cultural identity. That includes MPR News senior producer Jessica Bari, who decided it was time to talk with her father, a native of Puerto Rico.

Many biracial people and children of immigrants deal with complicated feelings around cultural identity. That includes MPR News senior producer Jessica Bari, who decided it was time to talk with her father, a native of Puerto Rico.

I don’t speak Spanish. I asked my dad, am I Latina enough?

Courtesy of Bari Family

Courtesy of the Bari Family

I don’t speak Spanish. I asked my dad, am I Latina enough? 

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Commentary

After years of wondering, I asked my dad why he never taught his kids to speak Spanish. It felt like a missing piece of my identity, but I came to understand my dad was part of a generation celebrated for fitting in. 

I don’t speak Spanish. I asked my dad, am I Latina enough?

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