I was named Ronald Valerio Estrada. I was raised in social divisions and cultural contrasts. My first form of discrimination was that between being Garcia and Estrada. There was prejudice in my name. I carried names that reflected, represented, and embodied the divided jurisdictions of my developing identity. My mother's family called me Valerio, pronounced Va-led-e-yo. Ronald was my dad's name. Ronald was an American name, the prelude to a greater division that would be a backdrop for many insecurities. Being Mexican-American brings complexity just like being Garcia-Estrada did in my childhood. Ronnie, was the name of Ronnie Lott, a class act linebacker for the 49er's, so I had a bias towards being called Ronnie. But for my maternal family it was a reminder of disparity, my father gap, and divorce. Before I was brown, while I was prenatal, I feel like my surrounding were disjointed.Was I a mistake, a blessing, an accident, or passion's fruit? I think I was likely a little of all these.
I enjoyed my name because nobody else in the neighborhood had my name. It was easy to say at my school and by my teachers. Nobody ever messed it up, like my primos who always had to say their names twice. We were used to saying our names with an appropriate pronunciation. When outside our neighborhoods, my primos and peers usually had to say their names twice. Then, it was restated with linguistic distortion, the American accent. With my name there wasn't that shaming encounter with the outside worlds. Thinking about my name takes me to some quality memories.
I had the privilege of having a young mother. A mother who, in my hind sight, was still a child herself, on the way out of her childhood home. I think about my daughter, now 16 approaching 17, having a child and it makes me admire my mother even more. I was an addition to an already large family. I could not have been hoped for, but at the same time I feel like I may have been a small source of hope. I came too early, I changed my parents lives, and I have to accept that when and how weren't my decision either.
It makes me wonder how scared she must have been. I was scared at 24 when I learned of my first child. I think about how handcuffed she might have felt. She wasn't given the liberty to be a free little girl any longer, likely surprised. I couldn't have been planned, hoped for, or anticipated. I think that it may have been more a perplexing collection that included worry, fear, and a touch of resentment. I know there was some excitement and preparation. I sometimes worry that my first identity might be something along the lines of disruption. I find it relieving to accept that my conception must have brought disruption before joy, even if I was absolutely wanted.
My conception without the authorization or consent from the religious or familial systems my parents were bound to, may have meant that much of my parenting was prepared in shame. I was valued, but possibly with the residue of regret. I am afraid to ask these questions of my parents, because I fear they wouldn't be able to express the remorse for their lust or passion. And at the same time, I value the way those prenatal emotions taught me to fear and tread lightly, while at the same time trusting to be cared for.
I was not born Chicano, I was born Ronald Valerio Estrada. I was born into undeclared prejudice, but non the less I can reflect and see how my father's line and mother's line were my first subjection to cultural judgments, moral dilemmas, and prejudice. I did not have to wait long to find out what it is to identify.
