Almost Mexican
Aliens? Mexicans? The aliens are Mexican? What aliens? What is happening? My 5-year-old mind spun as my mother rolled down her window to yell profanities at the people holding signs on the corner of Rancho California and Ynez roads in Temecula, CA. "We're not f*cking aliens! Leave us the f*ck alone!" This is what my now 25-year-old mind can recover from my memory. My very much light-brown hair curtained over my prevalent whiter-than-sour-cream skin, freckles, and curious green eyeballs as I peeked out the window at the angry people crowding around the duck pond. And that was how I found out I was, to any degree, Mexican. But first I thought we were being invaded by extraterrestrial creatures and was terrified at the prospect of being one of them. I was 5 after all. What I recall myself envisioning. The imagination of a 5-year-old is quite colorful. This is a part of my identity that I have suppressed most of my life primarily out of confusion. Much of it was because of...