The Process of Decolonizing Myself

I was born in the beautiful country of El Salvador during one of its deadliest periods. At the age of two, my family made the migration to the United States. As hard as it was to leave our family and home behind, my parents insisted on bringing our culture with us. This was ever present in the language we spoke at home, and in the food we ate daily. 

UNLIKE THE REST OF MY FAMILY, I DIDN'T HAVE MEMORIES TETHERING ME TO MY HOMELAND

Regardless of my parents’ efforts, I was eager to fit in with the images around me. Unlike the rest of my family, I didn’t have memories tethering me to my homeland. We were unable to visit and create new experiences that included me. I wasn't a character in the stories shared from El Salvador. I was so removed, they felt as real as the fairy tales I read. What was real were the characters on TV and in my books: Full House, Sweet Valley High, Clueless. However, no one looked like me. It never crossed my mind that this was a problem with the media. The problem was clearly me. It was I who needed to change. 

Assimilation was my tool for survival in this new land. I took the life out of my curls. I stayed out of the sun and lightened my hair. I imitated Cher’s speech until I sounded like a white girl. I limited my eating patterns to make sure I didn’t develop curves. I wore neutral colors so as not to stand out. I aligned myself politically with policies that hurt my own community. I did everything in my power to conform, only to discover it would never be enough. The proximity to whiteness kept me on the hamster wheel, never advancing. 

It’s embarrassing to confess any of this, but like every recovery process, the first step is admitting the problem. I can’t quite pinpoint if it was motherhood or the lead-up to the 2016 elections, but about ten years ago, I had an identity crisis. I didn’t know who I was or where I fit in. The process of decolonizing myself has been a difficult one. One of the areas I’ve worked on is how I present myself to the world. I’ve come to understand that the clothes we choose to wear inform others of who we are. It's how we present our identity, values, and beliefs. Because of this, as part of my reconnection to my ancestral homeland, I have incorporated clothing with textiles made in my motherland. Preserving ancestral weaving and wearing more traditional clothes is one way of decolonizing.

Part of imperialism’s history of cultural erasure included marginalizing vibrant colors. Indigenous people of El Salvador used indigo to create colorful textiles. When El Salvador was colonized, they were forced to produce indigo to be exported to Europe. Our ancestors lost their land and access to the colorful dyes they previously used. The result of these conditions was that natives resorted to wearing white cotton clothing. After El Salvador’s “La Matanza” in 1932, people were afraid to look indigenous. This was the government's effort to suppress and erase indigenous identity. Wearing colorful and traditional woven attire was a risk of being associated with the opposition. People sought safety from persecution by stripping themselves of their identity.  

But still, we resist. Many revolutionary movements can be seen through fashion: brown berets, zoot suits, and even today, colorful ribbons woven through braids. It is impossible to ignore the oppression pattern repeating itself. We are in a pivotal moment, and what we wear is a weapon for creating identity in a revolution. When the nationalist authority wants us all to be the same, I resist through the garments adorning the body that they fought so hard to break.