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It was sometime in the fifth or sixth grade that I started looking for ways to mask my Mexican-ness.I mimicked the clothing choices of the preppy white girls, attempted to play sports and tried out to be a cheerleader, got competitive with academics and tried to maneuver social circles to prove to everyone I wasn’t like those “other Mexicans.” It worked to some extent; I was told multiple times throughout junior high and high school, “Oh, you’re not .Speechless, I silently picked up the closest messy plate and walked away.I was so shocked and humiliated that I didn’t know what else to do.When I was little, my dad worked on one of these farms.Originally from Monterrey, Mexico, he came to the United States chasing the American dream like many others.

But as I was filling out the marriage-license paperwork, reality sunk in.After getting married, my mom and dad moved to Stephenville specifically for a farming job opportunity.Given that I was only four or five at the time, I never thought twice about my dad working on a farm because it was all I ever knew.As much as politicians want to get that Hispanic vote, they’ve been the worst offenders when it comes to racism.I was the youth chair for a local mayoral race back in Texas.So apparently, my family and I should just get shipped back to Mexico because we are worthless to the United States.

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