When Y Defines X: Language, Inclusion, Optics, and Fractured Identities
By Edwin Mauricio Olivera
By Edwin Mauricio Olivera
This piece is a response to The History and Evolution of the Term ‘Latinx’ by Cristobal Salinas Jr. and Adele Lozano. In recent years, ‘Latinx’ has emerged as a progressive term aimed at addressing the gender binary inherent in the Spanish language. While its intention is to foster inclusivity, the use of ‘Latinx’ raises deeper concerns about how language evolves—and more importantly, who gets to define it.
Inclusivity disconnect
I aim to avoid framing my argument as portraying ‘Latinx’ as forced inclusion, although it shares certain characteristics with such an approach. ‘Latinx’ is designed to incorporate gender-nonconforming and non-binary individuals within Latin American communities. While this goal is admirable, it overlooks the organic nature of language. Historically, language arises from the lived experiences of people—it grows and adapts naturally, reflecting culture, geography, and social interaction. Language evolves through practice and communal consensus, not imposition. This consensus is something I learned in my Sociology of Gender course: society, for the most part, still genders individuals immediately upon entering any social space. Individuals have little opportunity to address the rapid assumptions based on prejudices and discrimination. Social dynamics like the ‘master status effect’ simplify this: we make assumptions as a vestigial psycho-social reaction, protecting ourselves or seeking allies in times of uncertainty.
This is where the introduction of ‘Latinx’ falters. It attempts to address a social issue by enforcing a shift in how identity is framed linguistically, but this change has not fully taken root in the communities it is meant to represent. The limited awareness of ‘Latinx’ in many parts of Latin America is telling. It’s not just that the community is unaware of the term; rather, the decision to adopt it wasn’t made organically within the community. It feels like an external imposition, driven by North American academia and activism, rather than by the voices of those who identify as simply Latin. This lack of awareness reflects a broader issue: ‘Latinx’ hasn’t been accepted because it wasn’t born from the community’s linguistic evolution. Language must emerge from the community, not the other way around. When this process is bypassed, a disconnect forms between the word and the people it is meant to describe—often reduced to a trendy hashtag during election cycles to draw younger, woke-identifying voters.
European American?
Though the term aims to address gender inclusivity, it doesn’t reflect the broader complexities of Latin American identity across the region. While the paper acknowledges cultural and historical factors, it remains focused on specific segments of the diaspora, particularly in U.S. or Central American contexts. Latin American societies are vast and diverse, and identity is formed through symbolic interactions that vary significantly depending on geography, culture, and history. The sweeping use of ‘Latinx’ assumes a one-size-fits-all approach, sparking debates on whether the term is racializing or 'ethnicizing', while ignoring the unique ways different Latin American communities understand and express gender and language.
Gender and master status
Another point of contention is the linguistic challenge posed by ‘Latinx.’ Spanish is a gendered language, and for many speakers, ‘Latinx’ is not only difficult to pronounce but also feels culturally dissonant. The structure of the language resists this kind of alteration, making the term feel more like an imposition than a natural progression. While the X in ‘Latinx’ is intended to neutralize gender, it has sparked debates within non-binary and gender-nonconforming communities. Some trans women I know, for instance, take pride in identifying as Latina, raising questions about whether ‘Latinx’ truly represents their experiences. There’s a sentiment that the term, while well-intentioned, feels like superficial “bad PR” rather than a genuine expression of gender inclusivity.
This leads to a broader social critique: ‘Latinx’ is framed as inclusive, but its forced use risks alienating the very people it seeks to represent. The intention behind the term is to create belonging for those who do not fit into the traditional categories of Latino and Latina, but in practice, it often feels like an academic abstraction—a term that resonates more in university settings than in the everyday lives of Latin American communities. This tension between intention and reception speaks to a deeper problem: when social movements and struggles are commodified, they risk losing their connection to the communities they aim to serve. This is a can of worms apt for the next awareness week.
As a second-year graduate student in Design for Social Innovation with a background in Sociology, I often have discussions with my diverse cohort on this topic. Terms like BIPOC or LGBTQI+ often coincide with their respective months of media attention, sparking similar debates. I want to preface that my dual background—between the U.S. and Bolivia—has created my own set of issues with the Hispanic/Latino debate. My conclusion is that I don’t identify with the term Latino, nor Hispanic. Culturally and ethnically, I wouldn’t call myself Indigenous, out of respect for the uncertainty around whether I have Quechua or Aymara roots. Instead, I identify as Andean (“andino”), relating deeply to the high-altitude, resilient communities that often appear aloof and distrustful of strangers. I feel at home in cities like Quito and La Paz, with their unique forms of urban chaos, weather patterns and environment not things you associate as Latino, But I digress.
A key critique of ‘Latinx’ is that it feels like a top-down term, imposed upon communities without their full participation or understanding. Rather than reflecting community-level identity formation, ‘Latinx’ often appears as an academic construct, used primarily in activist and scholarly spaces. This highlights a fundamental tension between the language of inclusion and the lived realities of the communities it seeks to represent. As a DSI alumnus once mentioned to me: “Have you noticed that every time you hear ‘Latinx,’ it comes from a white person?”
In conclusion, the evolution of ‘Latinx’ reveals a deeper issue in how language, identity, and inclusion are approached in academic and activist spaces. While the term seeks to address important questions about gender and inclusivity, its application has been uneven and, in many cases, alienating. Language, at its best, is a reflection of lived experience, and when it is imposed without a true connection to the community, it can feel hollow. The solution isn’t to abandon the pursuit of inclusive language but to ensure communities have access to these conversations and can define their own terms of identity. Without this, ‘Latinx’ will remain a symbol of the disconnect between progressive ideals and the realities of everyday life in Latin America.
Reference:
Salinas, C. & Lozano, A. (2021). History and Evolution of the Term ‘Latinx.’ In E. G. Murillo, D. Delgado Bernal, S. Morales, L. Urrieta, E. Ruiz Bybee, J. Sánchez Muñoz, V. B. Saenz, D. Villanueva, M. Machado-Casas, & K. Espinoza (Eds.), Handbook of Latinos and Education (second edition), (pp. 249-263). Routledge.