When deciding how I was going to fulfill my intercultural graduation requirement, one option stood out to me far more than the others: a four week long experience along the U.S.-Mexico border. 

Last October, a few days shy of a year from this publication, I wrote a Weather Vane opinion piece titled “Frustrations of a ‘No Sabo’ Kid,” in which I shared my life-long battle with not feeling worthy enough to call myself Latina due to my inability to speak fluent Spanish. 

What I didn’t share in that original piece was how my multiracial identity also plays a role in my struggle with personal acceptance. Throughout my life, I’ve been told I’m “not Hispanic enough” to claim that side of me. As a result, I often find myself stuck in-between my identities, either through others pushing me to be there, or through shamefully placing myself there when imposter syndrome arises. 

In choosing to spend a chunk of my summer along the southern border, I knew I was putting myself in a position where my identity would be simultaneously affirmed and challenged. My background was both my motivation to choose this intercultural and the deterrent that made me hesitant of the experience. In the end, my decision to go resulted in an emotional, thought-provoking, and transformative journey that I am incredibly grateful for.

One of the most impactful moments of my experience was the time my group physically spent on the U.S. side of the border, seeing with our own eyes the pain that exists there. 

At the Douglas, Arizona port of entry, hundreds of miles of steel beams are lined with layers of razor wire, areas of disrupted rows harsh reminders of the pain endured by travelers. Dozens of cameras patrolled us from above, monitoring our every move. The dry, desolate, and mountainous environment of the Arizona desert creates a life-threatening journey for anyone attempting to cross it. 

The moment I came face-to-face with the border, suffocating feelings of sadness and anger overwhelmed me. My family background has always made me passionate about border issues, particularly the mistreatment of humans attempting to cross into the U.S. However, seeing these intense and lethal deterrents in-person gave me an entirely new sense of frustration and sorrow. I had a realization: it’s *my* people who are being treated as less than human. 

There at the border, I felt more certain of my Hispanic heritage than I ever had before. I didn’t think about my lack of Spanish fluency, nor past comments telling me I shouldn’t claim my Latina identity. I didn’t question if I deserved to have these feelings, or if I had the right to refer to these individuals as “my people.” I simply allowed myself to feel. I allowed myself to exist without questioning who I am. 

This moment of assurance was just one of the many powerful experiences I had on my intercultural journey. Through my trip, I learned more about myself and my heritage, listened to new perspectives that expanded my understanding of others, and found an appreciation for the uncertainty of travel. 

To fellow students deciding where to complete their intercultural, I have some simple yet real advice: choose the destination you feel called to. Don’t let doubt dissuade you from an experience that captivates you, or from one that evokes curiosity. Go where you feel you need to be. I promise the journey will be worth it.