An Exploration of Identity
by Dominique Kongsli (Ovalle)
Let me show you a little beneath my skin. Dive into my veins. I will show you the blood that pumps in and out of my heart.
Hello, I’m Dominique. I’m an artist and…I’m multi-racial, as many Americans are—roughly 33.8 million. My mom is of mixed European ancestry, and my dad is Irish and Mexican.
I came from a big family of five kids, within the context of an even bigger family on my dad’s side. The food, the family, the love was very big, and loud, and crazy, and fun.
When we lived in the San Francisco Bay Area, before my nuclear family moved to Fresno, we had family birthday parties every single month complete with a massive Costco sheet cake and piñata. We had a huge blowout party every Christmas Eve. My Uncle Joey dressed up as Santa to deliver presents to all of us kids. I didn’t figure out who played Santa (my Uncle Joey) until recently because I had so many uncles and older cousins that I couldn’t narrow it down when Santa was in the room. My aunties made tamales and enchiladas. We would eat together at a big table. Adults and children filled all the rooms of the house. Inevitably, someone would break out the guitar and we joyously sang songs in English and Spanish. Then we went to midnight mass, and I would fall asleep on the pew…
…and I looked white the whole time, but my experience with my dad’s side of the family was something other than just white. Whatever this was, it helped shape my identity—the way I see myself is more than just pale skin and blue eyes.
Let’s talk about privilege.
I have experienced privilege because my skin is white. I can move through rooms of white people, and no one assumes anything about me, except that I am “like them, because I look like them”. I’ve benefited from this privilege my whole life, and yet, I had a window into Latino culture, and that window is my father.
When I didn’t feel the love…
As a teenager growing up in Fresno, California, but attending the nearby Clovis Unified School District, I heard racial slurs directed at the Mexican community. I found the nonchalant racism and bigotry from my peers to be deeply offensive. They didn’t know I was part Mexican—until I told them—and then I told them—how wrong they were. They wouldn’t have said it if they had known…but as a white-presenting biracial person, I heard it all. Covert racism is one of its most sinister forms. I learned how to stand up for those not present in the white classrooms I learned in.
More is caught than taught.
I interviewed my dad, Tomás Ovalle, about our family. The themes that permeate his experience are art, food, and music. He would visit his Mexican grandparents in their Oakland home and help trim blackberry brambles which grew on their hill. My dad ate good food at their Sunday dinners—chicken mole, enchiladas, tacos.
According to my father, his parents and grandparents were creators, makers, do-ers, and educators. They valued education, invention, and creative expression. My great-grandfather was a sculptor and woodcarver, played classical guitar, and had an extensive record collection. He was well-educated, well-read; an intellectual. Their family respected the power of art. My dad’s aunt, Dorita, was a painter and an art educator. My great-grandfather’s relatives were rumored to be some of the great sculptors of Mexico City, creating large public works which are still there to this day. Paintings, sculpture, and music were a focal point and topic of conversation in their family home. My dad said that his grandparent’s home was a strictly Spanish-speaking home, and so he mainly listened when he was there.
My grandpa was a Spanish professor but didn’t speak Spanish with his children at home. It’s so ironic, right? So, my dad caught his culture, more than he was taught his culture.
As a teen, my dad started drawing and was attracted to Mexican, Aztec, and pre-Columbian art. Growing up in the 60’s in the Bay Area amongst the Chicano Movement, the broader Civil Rights Movement, and within protest culture, my dad would study to become a photojournalist and professional studio photographer. My dad encouraged me to follow my heart to become an artist, and so, I can say that my Mexican heritage through my dad’s side of the family is inextricably linked with a powerful wave of creativity.
My Aunt Carmel embraced our culture more than anyone in our family, by speaking Spanish, preparing, and sharing Mexican food, and choosing a profession where she could speak Spanish daily. When I stayed at her house, she called me “mija”. I felt the love.
Keeping the faith.
I like to think that faith—in its purest, most loving form, unites people. The Catholic faith is a part of Latino culture, and it is part of what united me with my grandparents, who were intensely Catholic. Like, the pray-the-rosary-every-day, kind of Catholic. Whenever I spoke with them on the phone, they told me how they prayed for each of their 11 children, 42 grandchildren, and 38+ great-grandchildren and 5 great-great grandchildren, every single day, by name. Again, I felt the love.
My grandparents shared their faith. Sometimes it sounded like my Grandpa José standing up at a family party, his melodic voice booming across the living room, and almost shouting at all his grandchildren, “HEY, PUT YOUR FAITH IN JESUS CHRIST, FORGIVER OF SINS.” That was a direct order. Again, I felt the love, this time ringing in my eardrums and echoing off the art-covered walls.
That was then, this is now.
Now, with children of my own, I teach them about their heritage. I speak Spanish as much as I can, wherever I can, with whomever I can. We prepare and enjoy Mexican food at home. I sprinkle in Spanish throughout my days together with my children. I call them “mijo” and “mija”. We decorate a small shrine in our home dedicated to our grandparents for Dia De Los Muertos. I want my children to know that they are connected to the people of Mexico and that their Mexican-ness is something to be proud of—rich with the inclination toward art, music, and creativity—because it makes all our lives richer.