Hey everyone. I'm Julian, as many of you know in spite of my reclusive proclivities. On social media, papers, signatures, etc. I always write down my full name, though, which is Julian Rey Saenz (Olivia's the first person I've ever known personally, outside my family, who shares my last name!). I'm a white-passing half-Hispanic, and though I only have a small percentage of Native blood in my veins (my maternal grandmother is one quarter), I have experienced my own questioning related to the intersection between my active identity and my familial roots, both culturally and ethnically. I think my elementary school choice to begin displaying my whole, slightly non-white looking name pretty much every chance I got was one of the first observable manifestations of this peculiar dissonance; I felt both proud of and bewildered by those two thirds of my own name, as if they were from some other strange world from whence I knew I came yet hardly knew.
I'm from San Antonio, Texas, originally, though I lived in San Diego from the age of six. From that point on, my parental life was divided between states. I'm only now beginning to recognize that this transition catalyzed my psychological detachment from my paternal, Hispanic heritage rooted in Texas. Years after, I find myself contending with a sense of shame where there once was simply embarrassment, or self-conscious yet ignorance-driven incompetence. Why can't I speak Spanish yet, in spite of growing up listening to all the members of my dad's side (which dramatically outnumbered my mom's few relatives, whom I've spent much more time with, all while being named after my father's mother, Julia) speak Spanish, as they'd been doing since birth? Why don't I know more about them, or anyone, or anything? This questioning has accelerated in recent times in both depth and intensity, motivated also by the profound and abstract suffering I've witnessed befall the people whom I love the most in my life, who happen to be more vulnerable to systematic injustice than I at a multi-factorial level.
It is this urgent inquiry which inspires me to learn more about both the historical and ongoing struggle of native peoples in the United States and across the world. One of my favorite places to go when my mom and I first moved to San Diego was a collection of hiking trails tucked between the rivers of the valleys between the small mountains in the area. Amid the natural beauty was the occasional sign describing the lives of the native people who used call this place their home. It never delved into the fact that they'd been killed and conquered by imperialist, missionary forces, whom (sorry for three uses of that awful word, simply necessary) the trails were oftentimes named after. Thankfully, my mom filled me in on that part herself. Now, I believe the time has come to learn the greater details of that story, and its legacy in our world today. Sorry for being so late on this! I look forward to the rest of the class and our discussions.