Ni de Aquí, Ni de Allá: Growing up First-Gen in Two Worlds

As a child, understanding is minimal. You simply exist, absorbing the world around you, imitating the examples set before you. Everything feels normal because that’s all you’ve known. But for much of my life, I was unknowingly navigating two worlds at once. The realization came in fragments, leaving me with moments of confusion and disconnection. For a long time, I felt unseen… like no one truly understood me.

Looking back, I realize that my dual identity wasn’t just mine. It was shaped by the journey of my mother before me.

My mom came to the U.S. at 15 years old, with no experience in the English language or culture. My abuela raised me, as my mom had become a successful manager at a hotel in New Orleans and kept the bills paid. At this point, she spoke English very well. Better than many Latino immigrants can in at least twenty years living in the states. Spanish was the only language in the household until I was five years old. In school, it became a secret skill, something I rarely used. I do not recall struggling to learn English. Still, I am sure it was an intimidating challenge for my younger self.

Though Spanish is my first language, I still navigate challenges in both tongues. I read and speak with varying fluency and unless I mention it, most people wouldn’t guess I speak Spanish.

I was born and raised in Louisiana, where the Latino population is limited. I lived in a privileged area, and I was the only Hispanic girl in my class until my freshman year of high school. Even then, there were probably five of us total.

My first hint of my reality was in fourth grade. My mom was a chaperon for a field trip to the Zoo. I was so excited to have her there with me. I didn’t worry about my classmates making fun of her accent, as I had no idea she had one. Until the next day, when one of my friends said, “Your mom is so fun to talk to! She has an accent, but it is easy to understand.”

Immediate confusion.

My mom doesn’t have an accent… Does she?

Before this comment, I would have never known her dialect has a tell. But this was my normal—her voice, her tone, her inflection. I heard nothing strange about it, even though I heard English in school all day, every day. Her pronunciation was clear, yet the accent unmistakable to a non-Latino American. A shocking revelation for little Liz. At home, my mother’s voice was warmth, familiar, and unwavering. In school, it became something noticed, commented on, a quiet signal that my world wasn’t quite like theirs. That moment in fourth grade was the first time I saw how my family’s world differed from my peers’. But it wouldn’t be the last time I felt that divide.

My next experience was more uncomfortable. I had to be in 6th grade at this point. I’m sitting at a long table, kids to my left and right. I open my lunch bag, when I hear,

All eyes land on my bocadillo de frijoles y huevo. This was the first time I felt ashamed of eating food from my culture. It was a simple bean and egg sandwich we often ate at home. Equivalent to a ham and cheese, dare I say. This meal was comfort, tradition, family. At lunch, it became something to be stared at. I never packed that lunch again, the shame lingering far longer than the meal itself.

The biggest moment of realization was during my freshman year of college. I had been chosen as an interviewee for a study. A PhD student was writing a psychology abstract on first generation individuals. The focus was on their experience in America. I am sitting in this study room with her. She begins to ask me my thoughts on things that didn’t directly cross my mind. This was when I saw the hidden, internal battle within me.

Did you ever feel pressure to assimilate? How did that affect your relationships?

Were there moments when you felt neither fully American nor fully connected to your family’s heritage?

Have there been moments when others made you aware of your identity in ways you hadn’t considered before?

How do you define home? Do you feel rooted in one place more than the other?

In school, being selected because of my ethnicity usually meant translating something or explaining cultural traditions I was sure of. I was always pulled aside to showcase knowledge, never to question it.

I sat in this study room, which was barely the size of an old janitor’s closet. Before me, a total stranger asking me questions and I struggled for the first time to find an answer. The emotional response caught me off guard. I felt seen, yet uncertain. Some questions left me without a clear answer, while others unlocked a quiet relief. The words that finally spilled out helped untangle the confusion I had carried for so long. The disconnection I felt between myself, the American ground I walked on, and the Hispanic home I lived in suddenly came into focus—fitting together like pieces of a puzzle I hadn’t realized I was solving.

As I sat there answering questions, I realized that being First-Generation carried layers I had never fully processed.

I am the first in my bloodline to be born on U.S. soil. The first to grow up immersed in the American language and culture. The first to have access to the American dream from birth. Every opportunity, every resource—available to me in ways they never were for my ancestors.

But with these blessings come pressures and expectations from elders who never fully understood what life in America is like. Take advantage of your education. Go to college. Graduate. Make a lot of money. Generational wealth is in my hands. A better life is in my hands. You have no reason to fail. You are in the land of milk and honey. At the same time, I am expected to hold onto my heritage. Don’t forget where you come from. Believe in the religion we taught you. Do not behave like American kids, keep our values alive. Protect our image as a family.

These pressures of preserving my heritage extended beyond tradition. They shaped the way I spoke, thought, and expressed myself.

I experience prejudice from both sides. I find American culture to be more individualistic than what I am used to, sometimes feeling impersonal or distant. Latino culture embraces passion, warmth, and deep family ties, sometimes in ways that contrasted with what I saw around me.

All of these factors had a profound impact on my relationships. I dove headfirst into taking control of my future, encouraged by my family. While this was what they wanted for me, moving out at 17 to pursue independence and carve my own path was painful for them. In my culture, it is uncommon—if not outright discouraged—for children to leave home so early, often staying until marriage. In this way, I embraced a more individualized, American approach. My decision to move hours away for my education was influenced by both my Hispanic heritage and the American ideals surrounding independence and self-direction. This crossroads of two cultural worlds shaped my choice, but also created a sense of confusion—both for me and for those around me. This is one example of many I have to share with you about my experience as a trailblazer.

Being First-Generation means not fully assimilating here or there. There are habits I’ve absorbed from growing up in America that I’ll never shake. There are values deeply rooted in me from my heritage that I would never change.

Being First-Gen is not just a label, but a lived experience that comes with immense blessings and undeniable challenges. Those in my community juggle expectations from clashing cultures, navigating an identity that doesn’t fit neatly into a single mold. There is no guide on how to be the perfect mix. I am made of two worlds, and I am still figuring it all out. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe I was never meant to fit into just one world.

No soy de aquí, ni de allá. Soy yo misma.