This year’s Hispanic Heritage Month feels different. It is filled with not only the joy and orgullo of celebrating our culture, but also the weight of fear, this fear of being othered, of being silenced, of being chased.
When I first came to Hopkins, I carried pride like a banner. To be Latino, to be part of a culture that sings even in sorrow and finds color in struggle, felt like a home away from home. I thought of my island, Puerto Rico, the smell of sofrito in the kitchen, the pulse of salsa and reggaetón, the sound of the coquí at night. I felt grounded. To belong to a community of people who rebuild after every storm, who carry joy and resilience in equal measure, was to feel unshakable.
But now, the atmosphere feels more complicated. I see my friends carry their green cards to dinner, a tiny seal that separates them from others. I recognize my privilege as someone who can pass, unnoticed, in a country that often rejects what it does not understand. You hear it in the way people laugh at accents. You feel it in the casual comments laced with bias, offered as if you are expected to nod in agreement. These things press heavily on the heart, heavy with the tears of generations, as if they have not mattered at all. Every whisper of resilience is a whisper for a reason. I nod at people, I smile, but inside, there is still the deep burn of being treated differently simply for who I am.
And yet, even in that weight, something beautiful blooms. At Hopkins, I see quiet resilience, a hidden pride that refuses to die. You notice it in the way students cook their food, dance to their music, slip into their language, even when the world tells them to blend in. You feel it in the way we greet one another in passing, as if each encounter is a small victory: the happiness of finding community in a space where it is so easy to feel alone.
Because to be here, at Hopkins, means to have already defeated millions of barriers: of language, of race, of generational fears. It means showing up in classrooms where sometimes we are the only ones, and still speaking with courage. It means carrying our families’ sacrifices like invisible backpacks, walking campus paths with the weight of history and still daring to dream of futures bigger than ourselves. Our culture breathes here, even in whispers.
I remember last semester when an email spread across campus, and suddenly, those green cards became seals pressed over mouths, chains binding knees. Fear hung thick in the air. But even then, we endured. We held onto each other, just as our ancestors had before us, in times of uncertainty. Because even in silence, there is always someone who carries their heritage boldly, who reminds us that pride is contagious.
Because our people have always endured.
This month, that endurance has turned into a celebration. At Hopkins, Hispanic Heritage Month has become more than just a collection of events; it has become a lifeline. From nights where bachata and salsa echo through the halls, to shared meals where someone’s Abuelita’s recipe finds its way to a potluck table, these moments stitch together a community that is both resilient and joyful. They remind us that our heritage is not just something we inherit, but something we actively live.
This month, you can see that endurance is glowing across campus. On Mexican Independence Day, the air vibrated with history, the voices of ancestors who fought, dreamed and survived so that we could still raise our voices today. Hopkins glowed that night — not just with the blue feathers of its mascot, but with every color of our heritage. In those moments, it felt as if all who came before us were standing beside us, reminding us that joy itself is a form of resistance. That is the beauty of Hispanic Heritage Month at Hopkins. It is not just a line of events on a calendar; it is a reminder that we are here, that we belong, and that our stories matter. It is a celebration of resilience, of culture, of comunidad.
And it is a reminder that Hopkins itself is more than classrooms, labs or libraries. Its beauty lies in the way we carry each other, the way we form a flock, blue feathers from every land, every accent, every history, coming together as one.
At Hopkins, I have found something I never expected: a family. A community that sees me, that lifts me, that refuses to let me forget that being here is itself an act of survival and triumph. Hispanic Heritage Month reminds me of that truth. It reminds me that our ancestors’ dreams are alive in us. And it reminds me that no matter where we come from, we shine brighter when we shine together.
Johnalys Ferrer is a junior from Arecibo, Puerto Rico studying Medicine, Science and the Humanities. Her column explores how culture, identity and the fight to belong live on, reminding us that heritage is not only remembered but echoed daily.
