As a fourth-generation Mexican-American of mixed ancestry, let me make clear that I can only speak on my own behalf.
My earliest memory of my abuelito is of us making dream catchers using materials that can easily be found at any craft store. His father was of the Ysleta pueblo in Texas. What distinguishes the Ysleta from any other Native community — their language, customs, worldview — I simply do not know. Perhaps it goes without saying, but this was not unintentional. The older I get and the more I learn, the more it dawns on me how I’ll never reclaim what is lost.
The thing is, I don’t particularly resonate with my Spanish ancestry either. My Spanish is fragmented, at best. I don’t think enough people understand that when we talk about the U.S. as being formerly part of Mexico, we ignore that Mexico is also a settler-nation, which contributed to the erasure of Indigenous communities. Point being, not all of our ancestors were Spanish-speakers, and that’s something that, at times, brings me solace but also frustrates me to no end.