I can’t explain what it feels like to not know who you are or where you come from. You have to have been through something similar to understand. The lack of identity began with forms at schools … at an age when you are just coming to terms with childhood interests, learning to produce macaroni art pieces, and suddenly not wanting to where a dress you thought you liked … but now don’t.

The checkboxes confused me, and I had no idea that it wasn’t my job to fill these things out. I was an overly enthusiastic kid. So, after staring at the form a while, I checked “Hispanic.”

“No,” she said.

“Why not? I thought-“

“You’re not.”

“But our family came here from Mex-“

“GIVE ME THAT!”

This happened a few times. And it wasn’t only situations like these. The topic of religion was always a heated one in my family. Stories of being “secretly” baptized after an “incident” with my father’s family being strictly opposed to it. My mother’s side not speaking to her after she married my father … because he wasn’t Catholic? She had to hide her cross in her shirt around my grandparents. Why? I might never know. These mysteries only added to the strong desire to find the root cause–and to find out who I was.

The publication of genealogical records online became a great source for answers. I expressed an interest in learning about my family’s past in my late 20s and had lengthy conversations with my grandfather (my father’s dad). He had well-documented records from a cousin who was a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution (DAR). He was thrilled that I was interested in who I was. I filed my own paperwork and quickly became a member myself. And my membership was streamlined–the ancestor I used to gain entry with was a first cousin of the famous General who crossed with him over the Potomac River. Easily traceable. Piece of cake.

But I still felt empty inside. I mean, this was still only a small piece of who I was, and I could feel it still inside me. At DAR meetings, I felt like an imposter. I could see a pride radiating from inside these women that I just didn’t feel. I wanted to feel it. I didn’t know why this was so important to me, and I had to keep searching for the rest of the answers.

Then a phone call from my grandmother (my father’s mother) changed my life. She knew I had signed up for DAR membership, and perhaps she felt the same awkwardness about it that I did, because it was as if she wanted to complete the equation for me. Fill in the missing pieces that no one else seemed to want to fill in.

“Honey, we’re actually Jews,” she said hesitantly.

What does that even mean? I thought we were from Mexico? Am I not Mexican? I mean, I know I don’t look it as everyone keeps reminding me …

She listed a few books about our family that I should get, one that her mother was mentioned in … about some of the founding members of San Antonio, Texas … Carvajals … those who survived persecution in Mexico, and Spain … burned at the stake … then more Carvajals hunted down again 70 years later, tried and burned again. Just for being Jews.

Okay. That answered some questions. And with that knowledge, I researched and researched for years. And I mean years of document collecting, hiring second sets of eyes for confirmation, taking courses and attending lectures online to learn as much as I could about Sephardic Jews in Spain, Portugal and Mexico–and then, about 15 years into this obsessive hobby, I took a DNA test.

The results: way more Jewish than it should have been for just one grandparent.

I was sent into a spiral. I knew I had to put my years of genealogical research knowledge to use. The application process through DAR (a very strict process to prove relationships to American Revolutionary ancestors), learning about how to obtain and connect birth, marriage, and death records in proper sequences, and exactly what Sephardic familial patterns looked like to help in difficult searches. I had to solve this. And I did.

With patience and relentless searching, I discovered that my mother’s side was Sephardic also–both of her parents. So yes, they did come through Mexico. But they were Jews, looking for a new life away from hate and rejection. They tried to blend in–they were forced to, but as many Sephardic families did, they married into their own people for generations–those with the same “unpure blood”. And this is what kept the Iberian DNA so strong. And it preserved who they were. It made me who I am. It was the deepest level of survival.

So for a while, I only had clues to the past. I knew my great-grandmother was proud of her ancestors and was proud of their historical significance. I just didn’t understand the true impact of it.

I do know this–the efforts made to erase a group of people from existence during the Inquisition (which wasn’t as long ago as people may think), still has its impact today. It has burned through the traditions of families, it has stolen identities, it has ripped apart core belief systems that were supposed to create a magic to be handed down to a child–pride. It has created confusion, instability, shame … lots of shame, and so much more damage than I can write about here.

I wasn’t completely devoid of Jewishness throughout life, although it was a pretty secular experience. My father, grandmother, and great-grandmother all married Jewish partners later in life. I did have close Jewish friends and relationships growing up … it wasn’t foreign to me at all. But it wasn’t mine.

Knowing what I know now from over 20 years of research I can at least say this–It has been the most difficult and rewarding thing to uncover. And without getting into much more personal detail, resentment remains and I struggle with why this has happened in this way. As if it was a secret. But it was a secret. Carefully kept and continually cultivated through systematic shame.