“No Sabo”: Finding identity between languages
The “No Sabo” experience
In sixth grade, I got into a dumb argument with one of my classmates in P.E. I can’t remember what started it all, but I do remember how it ended.
I, being the highly skilled debater that I was, told him that he had butt hair.
He, being equally mature, fired back:
“Well, you’re a beaner.”
I probably should have been angry and offended, but all I could think was, “Oh, you see it too?”
It was never a secret that I was Latina—my mom had visited the school numerous times for pick-up and parent-teacher conferences, and my last name, Cañas, was a clear indicator of my heritage. Despite my last name, despite my mom’s accent at parent-teacher conferences, even though I ate chilaquiles before I ever had a PB&J, no one had ever actually acknowledged my Latina identity—until the day a sixth grader called me a slur in the kickball line. I wasn’t fluent in Spanish, I hadn’t grown up in a large Latino community, and my connection to my culture mainly existed at home. Outside of that, I was just another American kid.
When that boy hurled the slur at me like a weapon, I didn’t flinch. Instead, I felt… validated. It was as if he had unknowingly given me proof that my heritage was not just something I knew about myself—it was something others could recognize, too.
Of course, I know now that this wasn’t some profound moment of cultural acceptance—it was a sixth grader being ignorant. But somehow, that moment still sticks with me. Because even now, even as an adult, I catch myself asking the same thing:
What does it mean to be Latina when you don’t always feel like you fully belong?
I’ve spent my whole life feeling like I exist somewhere in between. I speak enough Spanish to understand and communicate with my family in El Salvador, but not enough to fully engage in conversation. Sometimes, when I try to string together a sentence, I suddenly forget every verb I’ve learned. There have even been times when I accidentally stuttered and ordered a “puputa” instead of a pupusa at a restaurant (both humiliating at the time and hilarious in hindsight). I can hear and understand them, but I don’t feel connected.
This leads me to the big question: Am I Latina enough? It’s not necessarily a question you can measure by checking off a list.
Speaks Spanish fluently? Nope.
Cooks traditional dishes from scratch? Only if you count watching my mom make tortillas.
Knows every lyric to Bidi Bidi Bom Bom? Duh.
Being really loud in public? That one’s a yes, especially with my sister.
Owns a pair of chanclas strictly for disciplinary purposes? Also yes… Make that two pairs.
The phrase “no sabo,” which is the grammatically incorrect way of saying “I don’t know” in Spanish, is synonymous with young Latinos who aren’t fluent in Spanish. This creates a complex dilemma in which we feel like we’re straddling two worlds but never fully anchored in either.
For me, the conflict shows up in various ways:
When speaking to my Salvadoran family, my Spanish is good enough to get by but insufficient to express myself fully. I can follow conversations, but when I try to chime in, my words feel stiff and rehearsed. To be fair, I do speak a lot of Spanish, but it’s broken. My mom and aunts laugh, not to be mean, but my gringo accent gives me away.
When someone assumes I don’t speak Spanish at all. I feel defensive, like I have to prove my Latina-ness by responding in perfect Spanish, except I know I’ll fumble, so I smile and nod.
When I meet Latinos who grew up in fully Spanish-speaking households, I hesitate to claim that same shared experience. It feels like I’m standing outside a party I know I’m invited to, but I still feel like I need to knock.
When I tell someone that I’m Salvadoran, and they respond, “Oh, from Mexico?” And I have to fight the urge to pull out a PowerPoint presentation titled “Actually, Let Me Educate You About Central America.”
When I get excited about meeting another Latino, novellas, or ordering my food in Spanish, I suddenly feel like I’m performing. Like, I have to prove that I belong when no one asked me to in the first place.
When I think about my wedding, I realize that half of my family will experience my vows in English while the other half waits for someone to respond.
This is the push and pull of being a No Sabo—being raised between two cultures and never feeling like you belong in either. Too Latina for some, not Latina enough for others.
Why fluency feels so important now
Spanish has always been a piece of the puzzle, but now it feels like a missing link.
At first, my goal to speak fluently in Spanish was personal—a way to connect with my family, stand at my wedding, and communicate in a language that half my relatives wouldn’t have to wait for a translation to understand. Lately, it’s started to feel more significant than that.
I feel a sudden urgency to immerse myself in my culture, to claim it more fully, because the world around me is making it clear that if I don’t, someone else will decide what it means for me. In the current political climate, language, identity, and belonging are all being questioned, legislated, and, in some cases, erased. The ability to speak Spanish isn’t just about bridging a personal gap anymore—it’s about ensuring that the parts of my culture don’t disappear.
I think about how easily history can be rewritten and narratives controlled by those who shout the loudest. If I don’t actively engage with my heritage or make the effort to preserve my connection to it, then what?
For years, my relationship with Spanish has felt personal—something I wished I was better at but never felt urgent enough to fix. But lately? It’s started to feel more significant than that. It's as if I don’t claim my culture fully, and someone else is going to do it for me. Lately, I’ve been thinking about how fragile my cultural identity already feels. Learning Spanish is one way to close the gap, but as my wedding approaches, I’ve realized another decision I didn’t expect to weigh so heavily…
Changing my last name.
If I take my future husband’s last name, what happens to Cañas? The name that ties me to my family, heritage, and Salvadoran identity? The name that exists in my poetry publications, my master’s degree, family lines, in a lineage I already feel like I’m struggling to hold onto? If I give it up, am I pushing myself even further from a culture I’m already fighting to keep close?
I don’t know what I’ll decide yet—maybe I’ll hyphenate and have one beast of an already unpronounceable last name (say “MacIlravie Cañas-Uttecht” three times really fast). I know this: I am Latina, with or without perfect Spanish. Being bilingual does not equate to being bicultural. Being a No Sabo means to accept where you’re at, let go of shame, and not let someone else decide for you how Latina you are or how much you can claim your culture.
Learning Spanish isn’t about proving my identity. It’s about deepening it. It’s about connection and honoring the family that left their country to build a better life for their children. It’s about standing in front of the people I love and speaking in the language that shapes us.
So yes, I will be fluent in Spanish by my wedding day. Whether I say my vows as Cañas or with a new last name, one thing is certain:
If a sixth grader ever calls me a slur again, at least this time, I can correct their pronunciation first.
All opinions and views expressed are my own
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All opinions and views expressed are my own *
