I didn’t come to Colombia looking for some kind of identity transformation. I didn’t show up waving a flag or chasing a cultural rebirth. I came to meet Juliana Tabares. We were just going to travel—three months, maybe less. She thought she’d stay for the weekend. The pandemic rerouted that plan like it did for everybody else. Next thing you know, we’re five years in, living most of that time in a country I knew almost nothing about when I arrived.
And here’s something I’ve learned—something the United States still doesn’t understand. Becoming a citizen of a Latin American country doesn’t make you “Latino.” That word doesn’t mean what Americans think it means. In fact, it barely means anything outside the U.S.—at least not in the same way. In places like Colombia, people may use the word now, but mostly because that’s what they’ve been called. The label didn’t grow from here. It was imposed, absorbed, and repurposed.
“Latino” wasn’t born in Bogotá, Mexico City, or São Paulo. It came from census forms and bureaucrats in the U.S. trying to cram dozens of distinct cultures into one checkbox. Same with “Hispanic”—a term designed to reference Spain, not the lived experience of people across Latin America. And now we’ve got “Latinx,” a word that doesn’t even fit the rules of Spanish, a word nobody down here asked for and most reject outright.
That said, my favorite restaurant in Pereira is owned by a friend of ours. It’s called El Latino. So yes, the term existed before it became a U.S. government category in 1980. But like everything else American, the meaning shifted. It became less about shared history and more about fitting people into filing systems.
Meanwhile, here in Colombia, nobody’s out here reinventing your identity. People aren’t inventing categories just to argue about them. They’re Colombian. Or maybe they’re costeños, paisas, bogotanos, llaneros—regional identities that carry history, pride, and personality. If you talk about heritage, you might hear Afro-Colombian, Indigenous, mestizo, Lebanese-Colombian, maybe even Irish if someone’s got a wild great-grandfather in the mix. But they don’t walk around carrying it like a banner. They don’t obsess over it. It’s not something they invented. It’s just part of the everyday reality.
That’s what strikes me most. The United States is addicted to division. We carve ourselves up into racial, ethnic, and political tribes and then build our institutions around those labels. We’re obsessed with origin stories, family trees, and skin tone breakdowns—as if your value comes from how many identity points you rack up on the census. We call it representation, but half the time, it’s just categorization with better marketing.
People here don’t do that. Not in the same way. Colombia is as diverse as any country I’ve been to—white, Black, Indigenous, Asian, Arab—and yet most people aren’t walking around advertising a hyphenated identity. They’re too busy living, working, laughing, dancing, raising families, trying to make rent. They’re not brandishing flags on their T-shirts. And when they protest, they wave the Colombian flag, no matter what the cause. They’re not trying to out-category each other.
Back in the U.S., we elevate the past like it’s more important than the present. We define ourselves by where our great-grandparents came from, as if that’s more meaningful than what kind of person we are now. We turn identity into a full-time job—something to defend, debate, weaponize. We build politics around it, curriculum around it, even friendships around it. We say it’s about pride, but half the time it feels like ego.
Here in Colombia, you don’t get that kind of built-in identity. You live it. You earn it. If you’re a foreigner, people might think of you as a gringo. I’ve only been called that twice, but it’s a term that floats in the air, waiting to see if it sticks. You’re not Colombian just because your passport says so—you never will be, and that’s fine. But you also don’t have to justify your presence every time you open your mouth. People will treat you like anyone else, with patience or curiosity or indifference, depending on the day. You show up, you live, and over time, you become part of the rhythm—or you don’t. No one argues with you about what box you belong in. They’re too busy living their own lives.
One thing that really stands out: it’s as if nothing you’ve ever done before in your life matters when you first meet someone here. It starts from zero. Who you are today is who you are. Period.
Now flip that back to the U.S. A Colombian who becomes a U.S. citizen rarely gets seen as “American.” Sure, they can pick up the language, the lifestyle, maybe even the accent. But what do we call them? Latino. Hispanic. We drop them into a category they didn’t choose, created by people who never lived their life or spoke their language. It’s assigned, like a uniform. You get your new box, and that’s where you stay.
But if an American moves to Colombia, learns the language, marries a local, raises kids, pays taxes, celebrates the holidays, becomes a citizen—they’re still a gringo. And honestly, that’s fair. Respect here doesn’t come from paperwork. It comes from presence. From rhythm. From how you carry yourself.
That’s the difference: the U.S. creates labels to manage people. Colombia creates relationships to understand them.
So no—I’m not Latino. I’m an American who lives in Latin America. I pay attention. I respect the culture. I was lucky enough to be welcomed into it. That’s enough for me. I don’t need a label. I’ve got a life.