Language & Resilience in the Borderlands

In downtown El Paso, bilingualism can be seen in the street signs!

Growing up in the borderlands, you don’t think about borders the same way outsiders do. El Paso and Juárez form one large metropolitan area, which is why it’s common to find a blend of identities, two cultures merging into one. Anyone living in Juárez recognizes the proximity of El Paso, whether they spend time there or not (and vice versa with El Pasoans); the characteristics of one city will always bleed into the identity of someone living in the other. 

Language is a big part of this cultural mix; sometimes it’s Spanish with English structure, sometimes it’s English with a Spanish rhythm, sometimes it’s just whatever comes out because that’s how everyone around you talks, resulting in dialects like Spanglish and Caló.

This identity, this mixed language, is so embedded in our daily lives. We tend not to question what we already know. Sometimes it’s found in something as simple as street signs. Drive along Campbell Street in downtown El Paso, and suddenly you’re on Olivas V. Aoy Avenue. You don’t realize how deep the history runs until someone tells you who Aoy was: a teacher who fed, clothed, and taught Mexican kids when no one else would. And there he is, hidden in plain sight, a community leader who elevated Spanish in a time when English was the only language taught in schools. 

Speaking Spanish, Spanglish, and/or Caló are acts of resilience. For years, the El Paso Education System had no education for children who could not speak English; kids were punished for speaking Spanish or for using an incorrect form of English. This had repercussions through generations, which is why some people pretend not to understand your Spanish even though you heard them previously speak Spanish.

Not so many years ago, my mom was worried about targeted gun violence at schools and public establishments. She told me that I should say that “I’m an American” and that I should try my best at not having an accent, that I should not speak Spanish. 

Kids joke about being “no sabo,” (a way of referring to people who are Hispanic/Latino but don’t speak Spanish well), not realizing that somewhere in their family line, someone was forced to let go of their Spanish so their kids wouldn’t be treated badly. Their experiences are a result of intergenerational trauma; their existence is an act of resilience. 

Living in El Paso means living in that in-between space, where you’re not fully one thing or the other, but somehow more because of it. El Paso and Juárez create a place where I can switch languages and still be understood…Where coherence is not needed for understanding. I can say “parkeate” to my English-speaking friends, and they know I’m asking them to park. Language is survival, pride, memory, and identity all tangled together. It’s the way families stay connected, the way stories get passed on, the way we recognize each other in a crowd. 

Written By: Luna S. Palacios, Loretto Justice Fellow, Abara