As a reader of this publication, you will have undoubtedly come across the term “Latinx.” Politicians—including Elizabeth Warren, Julián Castro, and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez—have adopted it and use it regularly in speeches. It is commonplace in universities and progressive circles. And yet the Pew Research Center recently released the results of a nationwide poll revealing that less than twenty-five per cent of the people whom the term claims to name have even heard of it. In fact, the number of Latinx people who use “Latinx” is just three per cent.
At first glance, the rise of Latinx seems like only the most recent chapter in the saga of trying to label a population that has pushed back against every previous attempt to name it—to name us. The people successively referred to as Hispanics, Latinos, and now Latinx, who now number more than sixty million, almost twenty per cent of the U.S. population, only reluctantly agree that they are actually one and the same people. Just thirty-nine per cent say they have “a lot in common” with one another, according to another Pew survey, and thirty-nine per cent think they share “some values,” fifteen per cent say they share “only a little,” and five per cent say they share “almost nothing.” If you give members of this community the freedom to choose how to identify themselves, the more than fifteen years of polling that Pew has conducted show that most prefer other collective names: Mexicans (or Mexican-Americans, or Chicanos), Puerto Ricans (or Boricuas), Cubans, Salvadorans, Guatemalans, Colombians, or any of our many nationalities of descent. Increasingly, more people choose to identify as indigenous or as Black.
Not long ago, I ran my own quick poll. A colleague who was raised in Ciudad Juárez and educated in El Paso, said that, when he filled out his census form, he marked himself as Hispanic when asked about ethnicity, but left the race box blank. “I identify as a Borderlander, but the census doesn’t capture that, so I adopt Hispanic as a public and social identity,” he explained. He would like to mark mestizo—“part indigenous, part European”—as his race, but there is no such option. A Dominican friend said that she marks Hispanic/Latino and adds Dominican, but marks “other” in the race category and is frustrated because she is not allowed to add more: she’d like to mark herself Black and also Taíno, but “they won’t understand what that is.” A third friend said that she marks Hispanic/Latino and Puerto Rican, but, even though in Puerto Rico she is seen as white, she leaves “race” blank because she thinks that choosing white would be identifying with the hierarchies of a white-supremacist ideology.
In other words, it’s complicated. Why bother, then, inventing one name to bind the many together? Perhaps it’s because these people, who carry legacies of two continents of varied cultures, traditions, ethnicities, social status, and even languages, do have one thing in common: the ways in which they’ve been discriminated against by the white majority in this country. Until a half century ago, that discrimination—in housing, employment, education, health care, justice, and influence—was hidden by the fact that those now being called Latinx were counted in the census as “white.” That is why, in the nineteen-sixties and seventies, as the sociologist G. Cristina Mora describes in her 2014 book, “Making Hispanics: How Activists, Bureaucrats & Media Constructed a New American,” a coalition of activists, public officials, and media executives lobbied the Johnson and Nixon Administrations to create a new census category.
The chosen label was Hispanic, a term that had been used in its Spanish-language version, hispanos, by different local communities, among them New York Puerto Ricans who supported the Spanish Republican cause in the nineteen-thirties and New Mexicans who, to this day, trace their roots to the Spanish conquistadores of the sixteenth century. For the first time, questionnaires were sent to a sample population asking if they were of “Mexican, Puerto Rican, Cuban, Central or South American, Other Spanish” origin. It was estimated that 9.1 million people, or roughly 4.5 per cent of the total U.S. population, were Hispanics. In 1980, the Census Bureau incorporated the question into the decennial census that year; by then, Hispanics had reached about 6.4 per cent.
In the following years, a group of TV stations that later became Univision played a central role in packaging the separate groups under that label. For the first Spanish-language network in the country, here was an incredible opportunity to invent a national audience and sell it to the advertising industry. Univision was so decisive and so successful in selling the idea of Hispanics that, through soap operas, talk shows, and newscasts, it proved persuasive not only to advertisers but to the newly constructed audience itself.
In the nineteen-nineties, however, “Hispanics” came under heavy criticism by a new generation of activists and multiculturalists. They objected to its reference to Spain, with the country’s history of colonial oppression in Latin America, and to its glossing over of the racial and ethnic diversity within the various communities. As the novelist Sandra Cisneros said, in 1992, “To say Hispanic means you’re so colonized you don’t even know for yourself or someone who named you never bothered to ask what you call yourself.”
Then came the alternative: Latino. The term had emerged during the civil-rights era but waned. It was revived and included as a synonym of Hispanic in the 2000 census, thus redefining the by then roughly 12.5 per cent of the population as people of Latin American descent—a move that excluded Spaniards but included Brazilians, who speak Portuguese. Hispanic and Latino became synonyms outside the census, too. In the recent poll, when Pew asked this population which of the two labels better describes it, sixty-one per cent preferred Hispanic, but only twenty-nine per cent opted for Latino.
In the early two-thousands, a young, global movement for gender equity evolved, bringing about the rise of “they” as a singular pronoun. To many of those activists and intellectuals, “Latino” was a gendered—and therefore flawed—term. (As with most Spanish words, Latino is gendered: ending in “o,” it is masculine; Latina is the feminine version.) After the short-lived alternatives Latin@ and Latino/a, by the mid-two-thousands, many people, particularly in the academic world, had settled on Latinx. Mark Hugo Lopez, the director of global migration and demography research at Pew, told me recently that its research shows that the use of Latinx became more common in the aftermath of the 2016 mass shooting at Pulse, the L.G.B.T.Q. night club in Orlando, when “media, celebrities, corporations, and universities” started to embrace the term. In September, 2018, the editors of the Merriam-Webster Dictionary adopted it.
Inside the community, it was initially used by L.G.B.T.Q. groups, artists, and academics, but many others greeted it with mockery. Some columnists claimed it was awkward and impossible to pronounce. Latinx was “the bulldozing of Spanish,” Hector Luis Alamo, then the deputy editor of the news site Latino Rebels, protested. He said that he had gone through the entire Spanish dictionary and found not a single word with an “x” following a consonant. The popular Latino culture site Remezcla ran a Twitter poll asking its followers how they pronounced it: the votes were divided between LAT-in-x and La-TEEN-x. “If you can say Kleenex, you can say Latinx,” Ed Morales, the author of the 2018 book “Latinx: The New Force in American Politics and Culture,” maintained. Others argue that Latinx is “an anglicization,” a colonialist residue, an attack against the Spanish language: in Latin American countries, the proposed neuter form substitutes an “e” for an “a” or an “o” (in this case, Latine).
