Warning that this blog post is on the longer side. Average read time is roughly 10-12 minutes.
Hispanic Heritage Month is an opportunity to celebrate our cultures, histories, and contributions. For me, it is also a time to talk honestly about belonging: who is considered Latino enough, who feels included, and who may be silenced because of language, accent, gender identity, sexual orientation, skin color, or personal history.
I consider myself a “Yo Sabo” kid.
I speak, read, and write Spanish, but my relationship with the language has been shaped by migration, assimilation, discrimination, survival, and reclamation.
Throughout this article, I use “Latina” to describe myself. I use “Latino” when referring to research or people who prefer that term, and “Latine” and “Latinx” when discussing gender-inclusive language and the people who identify with those terms. This variation is intentional. No single word represents everyone, and people should be able to define themselves.
When English became a form of protection
My family migrated to the United States from El Salvador during the 1980s. At that time, having an accent could make finding employment extremely difficult. In the Massachusetts community where we lived, many Spanish-speaking families were concentrated in one area and described with racist and derogatory labels. They were stereotyped as people who lived on welfare, did not speak English, and did not belong.
My parents understood what those attitudes could cost us.
Because I had started school in El Salvador, I arrived with a foundation in Spanish. However, my family made English the primary and eventually the only language spoken in our home. They wanted their children to speak English without an accent and have access to opportunities they had been denied.
Their decision was not about shame or erasing our culture. It was an attempt to protect us in a place where an accent could close doors before someone had the opportunity to demonstrate their abilities.
While this was my family's experience, it is not the experience of every immigrant or Latine family. Families make decisions about language for many reasons. For us, speaking English was a survival strategy. English moved to the front of my life, and my native language was pushed into the background.
When losing an accent is still not enough
As I grew older, I no longer spoke English with an accent. I still spoke Spanish, but I began carrying an accent in my native language. I took Spanish courses in college because I did not want to lose it completely, even as my surroundings reinforced the message that English had to come first.
Despite earning my bachelor’s degree, I experienced employment discrimination. I applied for positions for which I was qualified but did not receive interviews. When I followed up about one position, a human-resources representative acknowledged that my surname had led her to assume that I might not speak English or that my accent might be difficult to understand. She said that if she had known how well I spoke English, she would have considered hiring me.
Although I had done what assimilation demanded, my Spanish surname continued speaking for me before employers allowed me to speak for myself.
I felt angry and deeply disappointed. I had left that area to educate myself and expand what was possible for me, yet the people making these decisions had not questioned the assumptions shaping their choices. I realized that as long as I remained in a place where my surname was seen before my abilities, I might never be fully seen or given room to grow.
I eventually moved to southern Florida and entered a community where bilingualism was common and speaking both languages was welcomed. My Spanish improved, I felt more accepted, and I became increasingly passionate about nonprofit work, particularly work involving young people.
When I returned to Massachusetts, I had a stronger sense of myself and was less willing to accept racism directed at me, my culture, or my language. I also found that Spanish was more visible and encouraged. But I encountered a different kind of judgment.
People within the Latino community sometimes questioned or shamed me because I was not completely fluent in Spanish. They saw the language loss without seeing its history. First, my family and I had been pressured to assimilate by a society that treated our language as a liability. Later, I was judged because that assimilation had worked.
That is why “Yo Sabo” and “No Sabo” hold a special place for me.
Language should not be a test of Latinidad
The expression “No Sabo Kid” has often been used to tease or shame people of Latin American heritage who do not speak Spanish fluently. “No sabo” is an incorrect conjugation of the Spanish verb saber, to know; the correct expression is no sé. Young people are reclaiming the label and challenging the belief that speaking perfect Spanish determines whether someone is authentically Latino.
An NBC News story about the No Sabo movement explains that some parents did not teach their children Spanish because they hoped to protect them from discrimination. A Refinery29 collection of first-person accounts shows that this experience extends beyond Spanish fluency. Contributors describe struggling with Spanish, Portuguese, and Haitian Creole because of assimilation, family circumstances, unequal educational access, and fear of discrimination.
Spanish is not the only language spoken in Latin America. Our communities include people who speak Portuguese, English, Haitian Creole, Spanglish, and hundreds of Indigenous languages. Language is a beautiful part of culture, but we also carry our heritage through food, music, traditions, family stories, community relationships, advocacy, and values.
People should be able to reconnect with a heritage language without being ridiculed for making mistakes. They should also be able to identify with their culture even if they never become fluent.
Latina Latino Latinx or Latine
Conversations about terminology can produce similar feelings of inclusion or exclusion. I once participated in a discussion where someone insisted that “Latinx,” rather than “Latine,” was the correct gender-inclusive term.
Latinx is widely used in some English-speaking and U.S. settings, but the “x” can feel unnatural or be difficult to pronounce for some Spanish speakers. Latine works more naturally within spoken Spanish for some people. For some LGBTQ+ and nonbinary individuals, either term offers an alternative to language that recognizes only masculine and feminine identities.
Pew Research Center found that most people with Latin American or Spanish heritage in the United States prefer Hispanic or Latino as broad terms. Latinx and Latine remain meaningful to some people. We do not need to force one word onto everyone. We can ask people what language they use for themselves and respect their answer.
Understanding the intersections within our communities
Discussions about privilege and discrimination can flatten Latino experiences. Skin color affects whether someone may experience white privilege or the disadvantages associated with being Black or brown, but ethnicity, migration, language, accent, nationality, class, and cultural history also matter. LGBTQ+ identities add another dimension that is often overlooked.
Our communities are affected by racism, colorism, anti-Blackness, xenophobia, sexism, classism, homophobia, transphobia, and language discrimination. Some of these forces come from outside our communities. Others must be confronted within our cultures and families.
Acknowledging these problems does not mean rejecting our culture. It means caring enough to help our communities grow. We need honest conversations that allow different Latine cultures and generations to learn from one another and listen to people whose experiences have historically been pushed aside.
Leadership power and belonging
Carmen Nieves, Executive Director of Alianza DV Services in Holyoke, shared a perspective shaped by her experience as a Latina leader.
“My identity as a Latina is part of my leadership,” she told me. “I can’t separate it from my professional experience. It’s who I am, and I bring that into every space.”
Carmen does not claim to speak for every Latina or every person of color. She sees her responsibility as creating room for the many voices and experiences within our cultures, especially in organizations serving domestic-violence survivors.
“People talk about power, but we don’t talk about who doesn’t have it,” Carmen said. Her reflection invites us to ask: Who is heard? Who is advanced, promoted, or trusted to lead?
Those questions affect an organization’s workforce and the people it serves. They shape whether survivors see an organization as trustworthy and whether staff feel that they belong and have opportunities to grow. Survivors seeking support and staff contributing to this work should never have to become less of who they are.
What this has to do with domestic violence prevention
Most of my work today focuses on increasing healthy relationships. I see “Yo Sabo” and “No Sabo” young people as part of the broader conversation about creating relationships and communities grounded in dignity and respect.
Domestic and intimate-partner violence occur in every culture. Abuse is not caused by being Latino, speaking Spanish, immigrating to the United States, or identifying as LGBTQ+. Responsibility always belongs to the person choosing to cause harm. However, culture and identity can affect whether a survivor feels safe asking for support.
A survivor may wonder:
- Will someone speak my language and understand my cultural background?
- Will they judge my accent or my lack of one?
- Will they respect my gender identity or sexual orientation?
- Could seeking help expose my immigration status?
- Will I have to leave behind my family, faith, or community to become safe?
- Will anyone believe that someone like me can experience abuse?
These questions are why culturally responsive and LGBTQ+-inclusive services matter.
Carmen emphasized that culturally responsive service requires more than providing a brochure in Spanish. It means considering who represents an organization, how staff communicate, and whether people feel understood when they reach out. In Western Massachusetts, survivors may also face transportation challenges, housing instability, economic hardship, limited language access, isolation, and mistrust of institutions, including domestic-violence organizations.
At REACH, Spanish-speaking survivors receive support in their language, free from judgment, and are empowered to choose what feels safest and most meaningful to them. One survivor may remain in a shared home with the person causing harm while developing a safety plan; another may pursue a restraining order and new housing. Our role is not to decide what safety means for survivors, but to explain their options and connect them with support.
These choices are also shaped by the current immigration climate. A survivor who depends on a partner’s income may fear that calling 911 or seeking an order could result in their partner’s deportation, expose the survivor or their children to immigration enforcement, or separate children from a parent and the community that supports them. A person causing harm can use those fears and threats to maintain control. Survivor-centered support must take these realities seriously without pressuring someone toward a particular decision.
Carmen was equally clear that Latine communities should not be defined only by barriers. Our communities carry resourcefulness and strength through extended families, faith communities, cultural traditions, and deep commitments to family and children. Effective services must recognize those strengths while responding to the practical and systemic barriers survivors face.
According to a CDC examination of Hispanic and Latino homicides, nearly half of the homicides of Hispanic and Latino women with known circumstances between 2003 and 2021 were related to intimate-partner violence. These deaths remind us why prevention cannot wait until violence reaches a crisis point.
Prevention begins earlier. It begins when we teach young people that love does not require control, families communicate without humiliation, communities respect boundaries and reject rigid gender expectations, and LGBTQ+ people have space to be their whole selves. The CDC’s intimate-partner-violence prevention guidance also identifies healthy-relationship skills, supportive peers and adults, protective environments, economic supports, and survivor-centered services as important prevention strategies.
This work reflects REACH Beyond Domestic Violence’s mission to empower individuals, families, and communities to overcome domestic violence and increase healthy relationships. We center survivor voices and address both violence and the conditions that allow it to exist.
Reclaiming language through connection
Yo Sabo The Game offers a creative example of cultural reclamation. Co-founder Carlos Torres developed the game after growing up known as a No Sabo kid. What began as a way to learn and remember Spanish words became an opportunity to connect with cultural roots, exchange family stories, laugh together, and learn without shame.
The game was not designed or evaluated as a domestic-violence-prevention program. I highlight it because its spirit of learning through connection rather than humiliation is relevant to healthy-relationship education. Relationships grow stronger when people can make mistakes without being shamed, and communities become safer when we listen with understanding instead of judgment.
Survivors should not have to prove their language, culture, gender identity, sexual orientation, or worthiness before receiving help.
Our diversity is part of our heritage
I am a Latina. I am Salvadoran. I am bilingual. I am also a Yo Sabo kid whose relationship with Spanish was interrupted by circumstances beyond my control.
My English reflects the opportunities my parents wanted me to have. My Spanish carries the history I have worked to preserve and reclaim. Neither language makes me more or less worthy of belonging. Together, they make me who I am: a Salvadoran Latina whose story holds both what my family sacrificed to protect me and what I have worked to reclaim.
As we celebrate Hispanic Heritage Month, let us recognize people who speak fluent Spanish, speak Spanglish, are learning, or do not speak Spanish at all. Let us recognize Afro-Latine and Indigenous communities, immigrants and U.S.-born families, LGBTQ+ people, survivors, and young people defining their identities for themselves.
Our diversity does not weaken our communities. Silence, shame, exclusion, and violence do.
If we want to prevent domestic violence and build healthy relationships, we must create communities where people are welcomed as their whole selves. Everyone deserves to belong, and everyone deserves to belong safely.
Support is available
If you or someone you know has questions about a relationship, is experiencing abuse, or needs support, contact REACH Beyond Domestic Violence’s free and confidential 24/7 hotline at 1-800-899-4000.
To learn more about REACH’s survivor services, prevention programs, and community work, visit www.reachma.org.
If you are in immediate danger, call 911 when it is safe to do so.
