I walked into my uncle’s house carrying six grocery bags.

As it is my uncle’s tradition, an assortment of people I didn’t know was invited to our “family gathering.”

I rushed to put the bags down and hug my aunt, barely noticing the people sitting in my uncle’s yellow living room. My aunt was in the kitchen preparing the food for the whole family.

My mom, a petite woman with dark hair, followed me into the kitchen after exchanging greetings with everyone in the house.

“Alaide, que grocera eres!” (Alaide, you are so rude!) she said with the disapproving tone only a mother can give.

I looked at her, confused. What did I do wrong now?

“Por que no saludas? Acuerdate que tu no eres gringa.” (Why didn’t you say hi? Remember, you are not a gringa.)

Gringa is the way Mexicans refer to Americans. It doesn’t have to have a negative connotation but my mom’s tone of voice made it sound like an insult.

It was my mom’s subtle reminder that, although I speak English 95 percent of the time, I am still not American.

She saw my indifference for my uncle’s friends as something an American would do because it’s okay in this culture. In my Mexican culture, however, my behavior was considered rude and pompous.

She had a point. I had gotten into the habit of ignoring the people I didn’t know at a party because that’s what is expected in the culture I live in most of the time.

In the 30 minutes of driving from Lawrence to Kansas City, I had suddenly arrived in a place where different attitudes were expected of me.

It was not enough to just shake hands as a greeting; I had to say hi with a kiss on the cheek, as is customary in Latin cultures.

Life in my world in Kansas City contains 2 percent English, lots of tortillas, and a constant search for the most authentic Mexican restaurant; the one that will taste like the food back home.

My life in Lawrence reflects that of a typical college student: living off campus with two roommates, going to classes and parties, and eating anything cheap for dinner.

Yet, when I talk to my family in Mexico, the person who lives in Lawrence sounds as foreign to me as she sounds to them.

Only seven years ago, when my family moved from Mexico to Kansas, I struggled so much understanding American culture.

I stood in the middle of a gray hallway staring at everyone passing by, unable to understand a word of what they were saying. I felt as if the life I had been put into was a movie and I was the silent spectator.

Unlike my friends, I learned about Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July in a little colorful classroom in the basement of a high school, not as a little kid.

Years later, however, my mom had to remind me that I’m not a gringa while standing in a kitchen that smelled like Mexican rice.

That reminder served as evidence that my parents succeeded.

We moved to the United States because my parents wanted me to get a much better education, job and opportunities.

They didn’t think twice about leaving their comfortable jobs to broaden their children’s world.

We stored the stuffed animals I had since I was born, thousands of books my parents had collected, the old table that had been in my family since my parents got married, our beds, our kitchen supplies, and everything that had been part of our lives for years.

My parents were willing to leave what we owned to open the world up to new opportunities.

My learning to balance the culture I live in, and the culture I have known for most of my life is just evidence that they accomplished their goal.

Living in two different cultures has taught me about myself.Because I had to face a different culture, I had to question my own.

I try to learn from both cultures and understand their good and bad qualities rather than conform to a way of living.

Most importantly, I learned that I don’t have to let a culture define me. I can embrace both cultures and still be exactly who I want to be.

I left my uncle’s house that night after saying good-bye to everyone. I hopped in my dad’s gold Ford Explorer and we began a 30 minute drive back to a different world.