Portland is cold, and rainy, and lusciously geen. It is also nearly 2,000 miles from my parents homeland. From dry mountains, cactus, and palm trees. From the small tight knit plazoleta their home resided in. +
While I grew up in Portland, I often felt like an imposter calling myself a Portlander. I didn’t drink kombucha, or practice yoga, or hike religiously. I grew up drinking horchata, and my outdoor recreational activities included carne asadas on the river with my family. Portland is the only home I ever knew though.
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Being Latinx in Portland means having my identity as a chicanx person and my experiences invalidated, even in such a “liberal” city. It means looking around on my college campus, on the max, or wherever, and realizing there is so little people that look like me.
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Making more Latinx friends in Portland though, I came to feel comfortable enough to proudly call myself a Portlander. I am not an imposter either. I am a real Portlander. Some of us speak Spanglish, and are 2,000 miles from our homelands, but we live here, we carry the douglas firs in our hearts like all other Portlanders, and we are here to stay.