I vividly remember sitting in my first grade classroom and pridefully announcing my family’s heritage. I felt unique and proud then, and surely everyone would think the same, right? My naïve, six year-old self didn’t assume what other people would think negative, or at the very least confused. I looked into the scrunched-up face of one of my classmates, “I’ve never heard of that, are you sure you’re not just Mexican?” Oh, maybe they were right. I was so easily convinced that all I said was “Oh, I guess so.” I was confused that people didn’t know what Ecuador was. I felt my cheeks turn hot, and convinced myself that they were correct. It never crossed my mind that I know myself better than a fellow six year old that still had to count on their fingers to do math. In that same week, apparently my teacher had overheard the conversation, and decided to have a class discussion about different cultures. I knew her intentions were well, but the feeling of being the “poster child” for ethnic kids receiving funny looks felt…unnecessary. I was trapped in thought and irritation for the remainder of the school day while the other oblivious carried on with their coloring sheets or picture books or whatever little 6 year olds did in the first grade. Looking back, I feel embarrassed that I was convinced, and then I feel embarrassed that I allowed myself to get mad at a child. They didn’t know any better, obviously. This was only the first domino knocked in the line. 

    Over the course of some years after, still in elementary, I started to notice that I looked different than my classmates. I noticed their blonde hair and light eyes. I noticed their dainty, upturned noses and thin eyebrows. Those features were all in contrast to my black hair and brown eyes, my tall, bumped nose that is reflective of my Ecuadorian roots, and bushy eyebrow hair. I felt embarrassed. This was also noticed in T.V shows I would watch on Disney and Nickelodeon. Slim, white girls being portrayed as the popular, pretty ones, meanwhile any other girls of color being brushed off as simply the best friend, or a butt of a joke. More dominos were falling, and an intense spiral of self-hatred grew. I begged my mom to allow me to dye my hair lighter, and thread my eyebrows. I prayed for the day that my parents would suddenly approve the idea of a nose job. As I grow older, I feel as if I wasted my childhood being overly concerned about my looks, at a way younger age than most of my peers. I hate the feeling of wasted time, especially since I can’t change it.

    Middle school arrived, and that opened a new Pandora's box. I feel like that’s when kids started making the conscious effort to be ignorant, instead of only repeating things that they hear. I had to sit through stupid jokes about “illegals” and “the wall.” And the whole crowd of 12 year old boys laugh. Ha. Ha. I felt so hurt and embarrassed. If I forced myself to laugh along just to fit in, it would literally be spitting in the face of my own people, and if I spoke up about how it hurt, I would be too “sensitive” or in illogical 11 year old male terminology, “a snowflake”, and just be ostracized.  They’d never understand it, and I knew that they wouldn’t try. How could I explain the years and years of oppression and hatred my family has faced to someone that doesn’t process the concept of empathy. “It’s just a joke” they’d defend themselves with. It’s always “just a joke.” I just had to swallow my words and sit in thoughtful silence. 

    “I had no clue you were hispanic, you’re so pale.” I shouldn’t have felt insulted. It was just a casual comment in a casual conversation in the sixth grade science room. That's when I started to feel not enough on the one side that I was so sought on changing. I felt waves of regret about never learning Spanish. I had nothing to prove to anyone that I was what I am, other than some facial features and the immigration of family members. I felt the drastically different sides of the same coin, at the worst points of my life. I learnt to appreciate my culture in the worst way possible, guilt. At that point I just wanted to fully be something. I couldn’t care less about what it was. There is a subconscious force in your head when you’re mixed. The need to “pick a side.” I did not fit in with the white kids, we grew up like cats and dogs. I did not fit in with the hispanic kids either, I don’t know Spanish and I barely ate traditional food. No matter how I tried, it never felt like it was enough. Why couldn’t I just be my authentic self, or did that even exist? 

    And then there is the present. There is no doubt I still somewhat struggle with this, but it’s so much easier to “fake it ‘till you make it.” The subconscious belief still exists, but I can choose to not listen. I don’t need to pick either side. After years and years of caring so badly what other people thought about my identity, the only person that needed to care was absolutely no one. Not even myself. I wish I never spent so much time wanting to be different, and so unappreciative. After hearing about other experiences, I just felt so less alone. Feeling this way has definitely taught me resilience; in a way that although I wish I never felt that way, I know that I was meant to grow and learn though it.