No, I Don't Speak Spanish (But I'm Trying!)

God Doesn’t Play the Label Game

The Label Problem

One of the most common question's I've been asked my whole life is: "Do you speak Spanish?" And when I say no, the looks range from disappointment to confusion, sometimes even hostility.

But here's the funny part: I have never heard my white friends being asked, "Do you speak German? Do you speak French? Do you speak Gaelic, or Norwegian?" Yet those are the languages of their ancestors.

It show's the double standard: one group is expected to "prove identity with language", while the other gets to just exist. And it's not just language.

It's funny and frustrating at the same time, because it's just one more example of how people assume identity based on appearance. And it's not just language. Everywhere you look, new labels are popping up: majority, minority, oppressed, privileged. Some groups even get built entirely around those categories.

And honestly? It drives me crazy. Not because I'm against justice, but because I know from experience that real respect is earned, not labeled.

If I played by today’s rules, I’d have to introduce myself like this:

• Minority Band Teacher

• Minority Piano Player

• Minority Piano Tuner

• Minority Parent

• Minority Pet Owner (because apparently I’m a Latino who should own a Rottweiler or a Chihuahua, but I’ve got a yellow lab and a Pomeranian )

• Minority Toyota Tundra Driver

• Minority Homeowner

• Minority Nonprofit Founder

Do I really need a label before everything I do? Should I jam with friends and call myself a Minority Guitar Player while they’re just “guitar players”? Should I host a cookout and introduce myself as a Minority Grill Master?

That’s the absurdity. Labels divide where life itself is already rich and complex.

Living in the Middle Ground

Part of why I react so strongly to labels is because I’ve always lived in-between.

Growing up, I was never “brown enough” for the brown kids. Never “white enough” for the white kids. Always ambiguous.

Traveling around the world only proved it. In Greece, they thought I was Greek. In Italy, Italian. In Mexico, Mexican. In Hawaii, local. In South America, depending on the country, I blended right in.

Even small moments remind me of this. Recently, after giving a mountain bike lesson to my friend (we'll call him Jeremiah), we ran into a group visiting from Florida. They asked me, kindly and with smiles, if I knew the best Mexican restaurant in town. Maybe it was because I’m brown. Maybe it was just chance. Either way, it rubbed me the wrong way, because those little assumptions pile up. Later, Jeremiah (a white dude) and I laughed about it: why didn’t they ask him? It wasn’t malicious, but it was another reminder of how identity shortcuts sneak into the way people relate.

It’s a blessing, but also a burden. I’ve been told to “get a green card,” “go back to your country,” I’ve been cussed out in Spanish for not speaking it fluently, and I've been in street fights (my younger more aggressive days). Assumptions can open doors, but they can also spark hostility.

A Snapshot of My Roots

So who am I, really? Let’s start with the facts.

Indigenous American (27.3%): Mesoamerican ancestry, rooted in ancient peoples who crossed the Bering land bridge over 15,000 years ago.

Spanish & Portuguese (40.8%): Mediterranean settlers and explorers who left their mark on the Americas.

Italian (4.6%): traces of the Roman and Mediterranean world.

Central Asian (22.2%): nomadic tribes, Silk Road heritage, Persian, Turkic, Indo-Iranian bloodlines.

North African & West Asian (3.6%): Berber, Arab, and Ottoman strands interwoven through Southern Europe.

West African (1.5%): a legacy often overlooked, yet real, echoing through colonial migrations or ancient ties.

I was born in California, raised third-generation Mexican-American, but my bloodline is a mosaic. My DNA carries echoes from nearly every cradle of civilization. That’s why, wherever I go, people mistake me for local: Greek in Greece, Italian in Italy, Spanish in Spain, Mexican in Mexico, Hawaiian in Hawaii. I’m a mirror.

If you want the short answer: I’m Mexican-American with Indigenous, Spanish, Portuguese, and Central Asian roots; basically a global remix of humanity.

Chicano, But Not My Name

By definition, maybe I could be called Chicano; a third-generation Mexican-American, born in California, walking in the middle. Chicano culture has long given voice to this tension: being Latino in America, multi-generational, and caught between two worlds.

But I’m not just Mexican. My bloodline is bigger than one box. Indigenous, Mediterranean, Central Asian, African: a crazy mix that defies categories.

And while I respect the meaning of Chicano identity, I don’t walk around introducing myself as one. That’s just another label.

Yes, heritage matters. Culture matters. Family history matters. But that’s not my foundation.

My identity isn’t in being Mexican, Chicano, ambiguous, or “minority.”

My identity is in Christ.

“So in Christ Jesus you are all children of God through faith… There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” - Galatians 3:26, 28

That’s the banner I live under. The only one that gives me peace.

The Trap of Virtue Signaling

There’s another layer to all this: the way some people feel the need to prove to the world how “not racist” they are. I’ve even had friends invite me into groups designed for that very purpose. And honestly? I didn’t get it.

One friend in particular comes to mind. He’s always been one of the nicest, most welcoming humans I’ve known in town. I’ve never once considered him racist. In fact, quite the opposite. He’s the kind of person who makes people feel included, no matter who they are. So when he invited me into this, my gut reaction was: Why? Why do you need to prove something that was never in question?

And here’s what I'd like to say to my friends (and non-friends) who feel that pressure: just because you look a certain way, don’t assume people automatically think you’re racist. Just because you were born into a certain class, or have a certain quality of life, or grew up in a privileged household doesn’t mean people assume the worst about you. I don’t. Most brown/"minority" people I know don’t.

What actually matters is character. Morals. Ethics. Integrity. The way you treat people when no one’s watching.

Here’s the hard truth: no amount of “doing the work” can fix hatred if it’s still rooted in your heart. You can join all the groups, attend all the workshops, read all the books, post all the right hashtags...but if you secretly harbor disgust for others because of how they look, where they’re from, or what they have, nothing changes.

The only true change comes through repentance and forgiveness. A turning of the heart. That’s where the gospel steps in:

“I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.” - Ezekiel 36:26

“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” - 1 John 1:9

It’s not the external “work” that transforms you. It’s the internal work of Christ. The actions that follow are just the fruit of what’s already happened inside.

So let me ask plainly: are you carrying bitterness, prejudice, or quiet contempt for others in your heart? If so, no amount of branding or signaling will heal it. But there is a fix: repentance, forgiveness, and letting God replace the stone with flesh.

Easy peasy.

What Sports and Music Taught Me

Growing up in action sports and team sports: skateboarding, surfing, snowboarding, biking, jiu-jitsu, baseball, football, lacrosse...I learned something that stuck with me. Respect came from ability, effort, and heart.

At the skatepark, it didn’t matter what color you were. If you were progressing, intentional, pushing yourself, you earned respect.

In music, I’ve jammed with people who didn’t even speak English. Didn’t matter. Music was the bridge. We weren’t labeling ourselves. We were creating together.

Sports unite. Music unites. Shared struggle unites. Not labels.

God Doesn’t Play the Label Game

The Bible couldn’t be clearer:

“The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” - 1 Samuel 16:7

“Show no partiality as you hold the faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, the Lord of glory.” - James 2:1

“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.” - 1 Peter 4:8

God is not impressed with labels. He doesn’t honor partiality. He honors the heart.

Who Deserves Respect

Here’s who we should be lifting up:

• People whose kindness and honesty shine.

• People who show up for their families, communities, and neighbors.

• People who love the Lord and love others.

Respect isn’t handed out by categories. It’s earned through character and action.

A Better Vision

Instead of dividing further with labels, let’s return to what unites: shared effort, shared joy, shared humanity, and faith in Christ.

Because at the end of the day, the cream of the crop rises; not the loudest identity, but the strongest heart.

Closing Thought

To circle back to what happened this weekend: being asked about the best Mexican food in town. Do moments like that sting? Of course they do. And so do the ones from my youth and beyond: people assuming I didn't speak English, telling me to "get a green card", or judging me before I even opened my mouth. Those words and assumptions leave marks.

But I do my best not to harbor resentment. I forgive. I move forward. Because while the sting is real, I don't want to live in bitterness. I want to live differently: to see people for more than their appearance, to treat them as I hope to be treated, and to live out what Christ has done in me.

So yes it hurts. Yes, it stings. But grace calls me to respond with something stronger than pain.

Respect is earned. Love is given. Labels fade. The heart remains.