Yuca.

Indigenous, but not in the North American sense.

“30 percent Spain; 22 percent Indigenous Americas, Central; 18 percent Indigenous Americas, Mexico,” a big-shot DNA company tells me. In my life, I’ve not set foot more than a mile deep into any one of these countries, and yet, my genetic makeup says this is 70 percent of who I am. Even if I were to question whether three-quarters of my DNA is valid or sufficient to capture me and who I am, the remaining 30 percent echoes the larger sum: Portuguese. Basque. More Indigenous Americas—this time, the Yucatán Peninsula.

I’ve resided in a single US state for the entirety of my life and, like most mixed-culture individuals, have often fought with claiming my own identity. How can I claim Salvadoreña as my identity when I trip over my words in my family’s native tongue with my own insecure and English-tainted one? How can I claim Salvadoreña when my dietary preferences and restrictions cry gentrification? How can I claim Salvadoreña when I know little of my culture’s practices and ways of day-to-day living?

Although I struggle with claiming my heritage as my own, with whether it is valid for me to do so, I can’t claim the state where I was raised as my identity and who I am, either. Although I’ve lived here my whole life, I hadn’t heard of red chile on mashed potatoes until I was twenty-five. Although I’ve lived here my whole life, I don’t carry the depth of the hard-voweled Burqueño accent. Sure, I call everything “a coke,” but the remainder of my slang dies there. I don’t have my last name tattooed across the flat edge of my forearm or frequent Allsup’s at night for burritos. Although I’ve lived here my whole life.

I met yuca frita as a side dish served alongside the national dish of my heritage: pupusas. Masa harina palmed, rounded, and smoothed, slapped from one hand to the next. First forming a plump disk, then forming the palm-sized bowl that will cradle fillings of your choice: de queso (con frijoles), revueltas, espinaca, loroco. Toasted on la plancha until melted cheese oozes out and crisps alongside the masa. Hand-sized disks, particular to the cook’s hand, topped with curtido and a bright, silky salsa roja, waiting to be pulled apart and scooped by hand.

Most days, I feel neither here nor there. Many mixed-culture individuals explain feeling not x enough for y and not y enough for x, and I’m no exception. I’ve experienced my fair share of racial discrimination from both ends. On the one end, having rules imposed on me that didn’t apply to the fairer-skinned person in front of or behind me while in line. And on the other end, having through-and-through Mexican friends ask, “Did you understand what she just said?” ignoring the native language of my family and the Spanish degree I’d recently earned. It begs the question of whether you have a right to feel offended. To what extent is it a choice to not delve into the language and culture of your ancestors for fear—and avoidance—of the innate and inevitable ridicule of your Latino/a friends and family?

The simultaneous expectation to be one thing and a secret desire to feel accepted and to be said thing, all while knowing that the only way to bypass this cultural exclusivity is to have been born into the culture in the first place. Purity. An expectation of failure before you’ve even tried.

Yuca frita: a bark-like, encrusted yucca root, chopped, peeled, boiled, and fried with little more than plain salt as seasoning. Like other fried roots, tubers, and bulbs, yuca frita has a soft, subtle inside with crisp and browned edges on the outside. Like pupusas, yuca frita is best enjoyed with other sides that also celebrate the harvest: curtido—cabbage, carrots, onion, oregano—and salsa roja—onion, tomato, cilantro.

Even if you are born into the language, into the heritage, and into the culture, given the opportunity to be everything at once, you’re not safe or exempt from the same ridicule, the no sabo experience. A student of mine once told her story of ridicule after being moved to southern Mexico. They made fun of her Norteña accent, she explained, making it difficult to adapt to life in the same country, nearly a thousand miles from home.

Being raised in the culture itself isn’t enough for the elders.

Mira, el no sabo, the newer generations laughed.

White boy/girl from town, the older generations jeered.

Each phrase, taunted through scowls; obvious disapproval; and high-horse, judgmental laughter when anything is done or said even remotely tainted by the US culture. Spanglish is grounds for no sabo. Limited vocabulary is grounds for no sabo. A whitewashed accent is definitely grounds for no sabo. Some days, it feels like even the necessary, life-sustaining act of breathing earns a bright red no sabo stamp across the forehead.

I was born in the US. I am a no sabo.

Nuégados de yuca: like yuca frita but blended before being palmed, rounded, and smoothed, slapped from one hand to the next. A thickish, flattened disk, destined to be tossed into sparking hot oil until it achieves a golden brown. A single ingredient and a star in its own right.

Plátano.

Growing up, I didn’t shower outside with a bucket of cold water I carried from a spigot at the edge of the yard. I didn’t hold in the urge to pee in the middle of the night to avoid running to the outhouse and el cadejo getting me. I didn’t watch my pet rabbit be killed and fed to me as stew. I wasn’t ridiculed for secondhand clothes with obvious patches my grandmother sewed on. I wasn’t reprimanded through corporal punishment, nor did I hear the bombs of the civil war outside my bedroom window. I wasn’t brought up in third-world poverty. I am a no sabo.

Not plátano, banana. For us, that’s guineo. Plátano, plantain: the banana’s larger, less sweet, more bitter, and (debatably) more versatile cousin. I met plátano as a fried side with a texture similar to yuca frita: soft inside with a dainty crunch outside, but this time, with a rounded sweetness. Unlike the yuca, pupusas, curtido, or nuégados I’ve left untouched to carry on the recipes as I’ve been taught, I make the fried plátanos mine, often topping them with cotija, cilantro, and avocado if I have them on hand. Una mezcla of the basic ingredients of my heritages.

Growing up, I wasn’t a part of the candy-paint-job low-rider car shows, and the drop-tops didn’t hop down my neighborhood every weekend. I didn’t roast, peel, chop, and freeze green chile every fall, nor did I spend countless hours making tamales for Christmas every winter. I don’t have the Zia symbol tattooed on me (yet). I didn’t spend my Sundays making homemade tortillas for the week. My wardrobe wasn’t Dickies with oversized flannels, and my makeup wasn’t Sharpieeyebrows with brown lipstick. There were never any ristras hanging from my porch and La Virgen de Guadalupe wasn’t a painting or statue in my home. I wasn’t raised like my primas. I am not a Burqueña.

Plátanos en miel: chopped plátanos, boiled with allspice, sugarcane, and cinnamon until the plátanos soften and the sweet syrup thickens, ready to be served warm in a bowl after achieving a deep, caramelized brown. Like curtido and salsa roja, this dish can be created only with whole ingredients that have been hand harvested.

Loroco.

Parts of two wholes; I accept being neither here nor there.

I am cruising down Central on a Friday night and making pupusas all day Saturday. I am a la máquina and vos. I am Lil Rob and NB Ridaz on subwoofers that are way too loud and tingiriringi tingiriringi tingiriringi. Quesadilla means more than one dish to me, and Christmas isn’t just a holiday. I am green chile cheeseburgers and pupusas con curtido. I am La Llorona and La Siguanaba; Kokopellis and el cadejo. I am parkear and estacionar. I am “don’t make me get the belt” and “go stand in the corner with your arms up until I say you can stop.” I am food hotter than you can handle and no chile in sight. I am biscochitos and sopaipillas with honey, and I am postres and torrejas salvadoreñas. I am name-brand clothes and my own seamstress. I am Burqueña and Salvadoreña así mismo.

I met loroco as a young green flower bud to be mixed with mozzarella cheese and palmed, rounded, and smoothed into the familiar pupusa disk. Like the ingredients and dishes that came before, loroco taught me that all resources are exactly that—a return to the same source; a generational opportunity to pass down heritage via the same unfurling blossom that nourished the ancestors of our ancestors.

Zapote.

I am two cultures at once. Yet through learning the foods and practicing with the ingredients of my heritage, I feel more connected to a country I’ve not once set foot on than the one I’ve resided in for the entirety of my life.

Reflecting on the foods and dishes of my state, I can name the whole ingredients I’ve handled from start to finish, by hand, on one hand: green and red chiles, beans, calabacitas, rice. All other dishes require foods that have been processed or handled several times over.

I met sapote after hearing longing and nostalgic memories about it my whole life. A flavor and texture so unlike any fruit I’d had before, I felt my ancestral roots sprout to life. Soft and creamy, like a firm flan with unmistakable yet subtle undertones, like baked sweet potato with citrus-honey overtones. Like many other fruits, sapote showed me what the earth can provide when tended to and nurtured—when allowed to come to fruition.

My people share with the earth, giving back and giving thanks for what’s been provided. Not counting on mass producers to produce their food but counting on themselves, the earth, and their neighbors. Not using the aesthetic parts of a plant and chopping and scrapping the rest, but gratefully accepting earth’s offerings in their full form. Roots, shoots, and fruits. Leaves, stems, and blooms. As a gift, not a commodity or a bulk item sold in excess.

A tube of warm, frothy spit says less than one-quarter of my genetic makeup is Central American. But the tomatoes I’ve blistered on the comal, skins of roots I’ve crackled back and peeled; sweet and bitter fruits I’ve chopped, fried, and boiled; and tender corn masa I’ve molded by hand tell the story of my ancestors pushing their way through a processed and modernized world.

When I consider the foods of North America, and more specifically, the US, I see the unfortunate, positive correlation between a lapsed relationship with the land and a lack of relationships between the people. I remember a former preschool student of mine once remarking, “That’s not what a chicken nugget is!” when seeing the nugget’s source in living form, and many others crying over the sharply chopped whole carrots on their plates as opposed to rounded-edge baby carrots, also claiming they’re not the same.

The food of my people is food I can prepare straight from my yard. The food of the world in which I live moves from farm to table, to table, to another table, and at least five more tables before it reaches mine. A disconnect kneaded through over and over again until it’s unrecognizable from its original form.

Through food, I find culture. Through food, I find nourishment. Through food, I find comfort. And through food, I extend my own roots through the softness that is the earth and forge my identity.

Featured image: “Pyracantha Sunrise” by Bianca Lucero