“I Am a U.S. Citizen”

 “Be brown and proud,” my parents always told me. Being of Hispanic heritage was nothing to be ashamed of, or I at least thought there was no reason to be -- until junior high my eighth grade year of school. My teacher came into the sweaty and crummy classroom and started to rant about our president, Donald Trump. The president was known for wanting to “build a wall” and keep (illegal) Mexicans out of the country. Seeing the images of the president on the news, this was nothing new to me. 

 As my teacher ranted, I thought of how awful it seems that the newest president was making a whole race feel disgraced. As soon as the word “Mexican” and “Hispanic” left my teacher’s mouth, all of my classmates stared at me. My face grew cherry red from the embarrassment. As I avoided eye contact with my classmates, my mind raced. I knew I was a U.S. citizen, but it had been in that moment when I could not help but think, ‘Where’s dad?’ ‘Are we going to be separated?’ I paused for a second. ‘I am a US citizen!’ I exclaimed in my head.

My thoughts were interrupted by the tap of someone’s finger and my name being said, I looked up to one of my classmates sitting next to me. We played volleyball together at the time, but I never talked to her much besides games and practices. She looked at me with a puzzled expression and asked me a question. 

Once the words left her lips, a bucket of anger drenched me. My emotions scattered. I was already in a tizzy because of the race discussion, her question sent my shock and discomfort into a tailspin.

 “Are you illegal?” she asked. “Are you getting deported?” 

After a short pause, I processed what she seriously asked me. I have attended school with the same kids since kindergarten and for her to ask me this was absurd. My mind started up again, ‘Should I be ashamed of being a Latina?’ ‘I’m a U.S. citizen. Why am I being asked this?’ My classmate stared at me expecting a response, waiting to see what I would say next. 

Finally, I just looked at her and muttered, “No, I was born here. I’m legal.”

 She just looked at me confused; her face went pale, whiter than the white girl she was. I had no patience or desire to explain myself to her, so I just sat there in silence with no hint or glimmer of my disgust because I was taught to not be rude to people.

Later that day, I arrived home and replayed this moment multiple times in my head. I recounted the incident to my parents. Even though I have a thick backbone, my parents held me in their calming embrace. My parents never expected to hear a racist story like this from their daughter especially only being in eighth grade They, too, were shocked that they had to teach their thirteen-year-old daughter about what the words ‘“prejudice” and “racist” meant. My mom looked at my dad, tears in her eyes, she sobbed “If I knew this is how she would be treated, we would have never had kids.” Even though he said nothing, my dad nodded his head, rubbing both of our backs. They knew my frustration and understood the depths of my ocean shed pain. They reminded me that being a mocha-skinned girl was just as beautiful as any other skin color.

“Be brown and proud,” my parents always taught me. I still have hope that one day when I have children they will be proud of their heritage. I do not want my children to be discriminated, but if they are, I want them to handle the situation with respect, despite the rudeness of other people. I will teach my children to be proud of their beautiful brown skin, and I will model strength and courage in the face of ignorance and discrimination because I love my Latina heritage.