"Spic", "wetback", "The Mexican", "The Cuban", various comments about my undoubted inherent swimming abilities, I've heard it all. Growing up with ethnic origin in a southern, rural town that is primarily agricultural is anything but easy. As an adolescent you want nothing more than to fit in. That was near impossible for me. If it wasn't my slightly yellow tinted skin tone or unusually dark brown hair covering my head, arms, and legs, then it was a name like "Francis Diaz" that really set me a part.
Some of my earliest memories are of my abuela and me walking from her house down in Hialeah to a nearby lake to feed the ducks. The whole way there and back she would sing children songs in Spanish about ducks. As I walked with her around her house, she would point out objects and tell me what they were in Spanish. I was just raised with that being a part of my life and up until I started school I never thought anything of it. In elementary school, the students were accepting and didn't tend to see a difference in race, gender, ethnicity, or social status. So although they would every so often make playful comments, it never caused me to think anything of it.
As children grow up and reach those adolescent years they became quite a bit more hostile, and that naïve understanding fades away. The change between elementary school and middle school was like a switch being pulled, it was so dramatic and sudden. It went from a small group of kids making comments, to my entire grade. I can't recall a day going by in which I wasn't singled out for not being "white". One student would begin the banter and soon after, the rest of the class would join in, not even excluding my closest friends. At a time where everyone feels awkward and insecure, they feel the need to tease others, and I was the easy target. I became so worn down and upset by all the teasing, I grew to hate everything having to do with the Cuban culture. I wanted nothing more than to get rid of it and be like everyone else. I hated that side of my family, my name, the way I looked, the language, everything.
Then one day in the beginning of my ninth grade year, my abuelo sat down and told me the story of how they came to be here. He explained how things were once Castro took over, how they suddenly had nothing over night. He and my abuela wanted a better life than that for my uncle and father, so my abuelo spent three years in a work camp to become eligible to immigrate to the United States. My abuelo's courage to start over and risk so much was so inspiring to me. It suddenly didn't matter to me what any of my peers thought or said, I became proud of my heritage and everything it represented.
Some of my earliest memories are of my abuela and me walking from her house down in Hialeah to a nearby lake to feed the ducks. The whole way there and back she would sing children songs in Spanish about ducks. As I walked with her around her house, she would point out objects and tell me what they were in Spanish. I was just raised with that being a part of my life and up until I started school I never thought anything of it. In elementary school, the students were accepting and didn't tend to see a difference in race, gender, ethnicity, or social status. So although they would every so often make playful comments, it never caused me to think anything of it.
As children grow up and reach those adolescent years they became quite a bit more hostile, and that naïve understanding fades away. The change between elementary school and middle school was like a switch being pulled, it was so dramatic and sudden. It went from a small group of kids making comments, to my entire grade. I can't recall a day going by in which I wasn't singled out for not being "white". One student would begin the banter and soon after, the rest of the class would join in, not even excluding my closest friends. At a time where everyone feels awkward and insecure, they feel the need to tease others, and I was the easy target. I became so worn down and upset by all the teasing, I grew to hate everything having to do with the Cuban culture. I wanted nothing more than to get rid of it and be like everyone else. I hated that side of my family, my name, the way I looked, the language, everything.
Then one day in the beginning of my ninth grade year, my abuelo sat down and told me the story of how they came to be here. He explained how things were once Castro took over, how they suddenly had nothing over night. He and my abuela wanted a better life than that for my uncle and father, so my abuelo spent three years in a work camp to become eligible to immigrate to the United States. My abuelo's courage to start over and risk so much was so inspiring to me. It suddenly didn't matter to me what any of my peers thought or said, I became proud of my heritage and everything it represented.
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