Dear America

Dear America,

How can you hate me when you don’t know me? You see my brown skin and brown eyes and assume the worst of me. You hear me speak my native tongue, and you feel threatened. You glare at me during red lights, as I sing the songs of my ancestors. You approach and keep an eye on me while I shop, as if I were a thief. You label me a rapist, thug, drug dealer, and killer. That is how you portray me, but that’s not me.

I was raised by Hispanic parents in an immigrant home. At the age of nine, I became a full-time translator for my parents, reading documents and translating words that I didn’t know, ordering their food due to their broken English. A year later, I was called a “little brown boy” at school. That day, I came home crying to my parents. I became ashamed and embarrassed of my skin. Thinking to myself, Why am I brown? Is it bad being brown? Why do the kids and parents stare at me as I walk by? Is something wrong with me? I would get in the shower and scrub against my skin as hard as I could, hoping to erase the brownness and reveal a white tone. After many failed attempts, I went to my parents and demanded they buy me long-sleeved shirts and hoodies to hide behind. For almost a whole year, I wore nothing but long-sleeved shirts, hoodies, and pants. No matter the temperature, you made me hate myself. This became the first of many instances where you saw me as a color and not a human being. As the years went on, those term worsened into illegal, immigrant, alien, wetback, and many other vile words.

That same year I got recruited to play on a local club soccer team. I begged my parents to let me join. My mother refused for reasons that I did not yet comprehend. She had felt your hatred and did her best to shield me from your wrath. A year later they contacted me again, and my mother finally gave in. I played on the team for four years. That is, until one tournament when you visited me once again.

My height and skin tone made me noticeable on the soccer fields. As I would use my height and strength to my advantage, the opposing fans would yell at me. Finding different ways to form sentences that carried the words brown, big, illegal. Some fans accused me of using false documentation to the tournament officials. I would shrug it off and do my talking on the pitch. The biggest satisfaction was seeing the kids of those parents crying after we would beat them. 

Looking back, I realized why my mother was hesitant about me joining the team. She had experienced her own hate from you over the years, and she wanted to protect me from you. She would always defend me in these altercations. Like a momma bear defending her cub. I didn’t realize how much all this affected her until one night when I heard her crying and praying: “Diosito, por favor. Le pido que ya no le agan burla a mi hijo. Esta chiquito y no sabe lo que esta pasando,” she pleaded.

After that night, I told her I didn’t want to play on the team anymore. I made up a lame excuse about how soccer was interfering with school and I wanted to improve my grades, knowing she would approve of this. To this day she still doesn’t know that I heard her pray to God about me.

As the years went by, I graduated junior high from a small local Catholic school and was awaiting the transition into public high school. My mom was scared for me, but the thought of my once again reuniting in the same school with my older brother and sister eased her emotions. She had every reason to be scared: I went from having ten kids in my eighth-grade class to having around four hundred in my freshman class. And me, like always, a minority along with a few others.

The food that the high school served was edible, but it wasn’t good by any means. My mom began packing my lunch every day. As I would unpack my lunch box filled with a torta, cotija queso, and some arroz, I would get weird stares and remarks about my food from my friends, how it smelled bad and looked gross. I became filled with embarrassment and later I told my mother not to pack my lunch anymore. I sacrificed an extra twenty minutes of sleep to pack my own American styled lunch: sandwich, chips, and fruit. Yet again, you found a way to harass me. You made me question my culture and hate myself.

As the years went on, I became comfortable with your presence. These instances weren’t verbal anymore, but I was still met with stares from you. With every stare I could feel the hate you had for me. Hate for a little brown boy who was divided in two: being too American for Mexicans, and too Mexican for Americans. You forced me to choose a side. At that time, I wanted to be normal. So, I chose you; I abandoned my ancestors. I let you wash me with your music, holidays, slang, and activities. I refused to speak Spanish in public. All the years it took me to become fluent in Spanish, and I forgot it in an instant. 

Life was good, but I still wasn’t me. I thought that if I chose you, you would finally love me. I think I was nearing it, until the summer of 2015. There was a big announcement throughout the country. His voice blared through every radio station and television, instilling fear in immigrants, while it fueled you. His voice gave power to you. You forgot all about my big sacrifice, all I had committed, and began hating me again. But much worse, and much more.

It was summertime, and my family and I were on vacation in North and South Carolina. We’d been going for years, and never saw you or heard from you. So, we always went back. But this time it was different. I remember walking around seeing his hats with those four words engraved on them: “Make America Great Again.” The more we walked along downtown, the more we were met with stares. We ignored your stares and every racist comment you mumbled under your breath, attempting to savor the good times we were having. That was until you stopped us. You heard us speak Spanish, and it filled you with anger. You humiliated my family in the middle of the crowded street, yelling at us, “You fucking wetbacks. Go back to where you came from!” or, “I’m going to call the cops and get you deported! You stupid illegals!” as you reached for your phone.

As your voice got louder, some of your friends slowly chimed in. Belittling my family in any way possible. I could hear the approaching sirens. Cops are coming! Good, maybe they can help us, my naïve self thought. 

The cop got out of the vehicle. He scanned the area for a threat and locked his eyes on my family. Slowly, he placed his hand on his firearm and shouted, “What’s going on here? Don’t make any sudden moves. I got a call about a family disturbing the bystanders.” 

What the fuck? We were just walking when you and your friends began antagonizing us. And we’re the threat? I thought as I gripped my mom’s hand, all of us huddling closer in an attempt to ensure that everything would be okay. 

My father calmly spoke. “Officer, we aren’t doing anything wrong. My family and I are on vacation and enjoying ourselves. These people over here began abusing us. Please, we just want to be on our way,” he said with his broken English.

You began shouting again. Calling us illegals. Saying how we came over to this land to steal jobs from your people and sell them drugs. 

The cop demanded to see identification from my family. My father slowly reached for his wallet when the cop freaked and pulled out his gun, aiming it in our direction. Time froze. I lost my sense of hearing, and I could feel the tears flowing down my cheeks. Your friends started yelling and running in fear—and then I wake up. 

You see, you started this. You support a man that is full of hate toward me and my people. A man that I can’t escape from, not in reality and not in my dreams. And what has happened to me only in a dream has been the reality for many others.

You still see my skin as a threat. You hear me speak my native tongue and assume I am a terrorist waiting to attack. Even though I am 6’3, you make me feel small. You make me feel like the “little brown boy” you once labeled me as. And for what? To humiliate me? Your voice fills with pride with every racist remark that comes out of your mouth, making me the scapegoat for your impurities. You empower your friends to speak up and show them that this is how I should be treated. 

I’ve concluded that no matter how hard I try or which side I choose, it’s not enough for you. My skin will always overpower my words and actions. When will you accept me?

Sincerely,