“Let’s speak Spanish,” my bilingual friends whispered, girlish tween gossip passing through my ears without my comprehension. At a young age, I rejected learning Spanish out of a fear of failure– a sense that my identity had been disproven. There was an incomplete significance to my cultural identity until I began high school. Struck by unfamiliar faces, the ethnically homogenous environment that I was accustomed to was replaced with a white homogeneity, alien to my upbringing. The reclamation of my Latina identity began when my classmates tossed the Mexican candies my teacher offered. When a friend said that my Nicaraguan lunch smelled disgusting. When I found myself studying the appearances of my white counterparts with a resentment towards my mestizo nose and my “bird's nest” of textured hair. “I wish I was born white.” The thought stabbed my brain like a prejudicial needle; a betrayal against my past self, who longed for a stronger connection to her culture. I was not unaware of these changes and therefore grew reminiscent of my past. With the guidance of my Spanish Honors teacher, I gradually grew confident in sharing my culture with those who were unfamiliar with it. I crafted an elaborate presentation about quinceañeras with personal anecdotes from my sister, mother, and myself to share my reality. I had my tío cook gallo pinto for my class and returned home with an empty tray. In my pursuit of cultural community, I began to perceive my ethnicity as an opportunity to be embraced not only by my peers, but myself. At graduation practice, the student who read our names approached me to clarify the pronunciation of my full name and recited it with an American dialect. I assured her that she was correct, as that was how everyone at school recognized my name. However, graduation was thick with reflection on my upbringing as a daughter of immigrants and how the quintessential nature of my life honors my heritage: from milestones such as celebrating quinceañeras to playing my first lead role as Puerto Rican immigrant Maria in West Side Story. From things as simple as hearing my mom blast cumbias while cleaning or teaching my friends El Payaso de Rodeo at school dances. As a result, I approached her the next day with the request to pronounce my name in its true form– something I had never bothered to address until that moment. Though my high school career has presented challenges with ownership of my identity, I’ve learned my ethnicity is not only integral to my upbringing, but my future. I continue to seek opportunities that allow me to express myself and uplift other unheard voices. As a first-generation college student, I would like to continue proving that cycles can be broken only if one works to harness that power. Therefore, I will pursue a degree in journalism with a minor in theater and music, using modern media to promote the voices of artists like myself who crave outlets for expression. After bridging the connection between my past, present, and future, I will strengthen the voices of those whose experiences have caused reluctance to share their experiences, history, or passions. The number of unheard stories that exist grows; studying journalism but also celebrating my culture is one step to diminishing that fact. I now learn Spanish for the relatives I couldn’t have a conversation with and for tween Kaitlyn who once felt unworthy of a role in her culture. Most of all, I honor Spanish for today’s Kaitlyn, who works to make sure that role never loses its importance, and in turn, its legacy.