Sidenote: This story and its characters are fictional and are of my own creation. However, the ideas/opinions echoed in this piece are mine.

“Where are you from?” my teacher asked in Spanish.

It was literally 2 minutes before the first day of Spanish class ended, and I really didn’t want to answer. “I’m from California” I responded slowly in Spanish, but then she paused, and asked me again. “I’m from California” I repeated, but she had a suspicious look on her face. She looked puzzled as she stared at my last name (Flores) on my name card in front of me, then at my skin. She asked me a third time, and at this point, the entire class was looking at me, and I rolled my eyes; I had finally understood. “I was born in California, my parents were also born in California, and one of my grandparents was born in California, but the other in Mexico” I explained, and as I said this, she then smiled, and the class sighed.

My parents had taught me to say this, it was just simply something that I would have to get used to they said indirectly, as they had back when they were younger. For those of us who had “different” last names or simply darker skin tones, the simple question of “Where are you from?” was always one that required explanation.

The bell rang shortly after, and the rush to the cafeteria for lunch quickly began. Luckily my friends found a table fast while I waited in the cafeteria lunch line, and made my way over there with my tray shortly.

“Spanish class was so easy today” John said, with most of my friends nodding to this. “I mean, her class is going to be so easy. Like her first homework, I literally did it in class when she was still talking” Allison added. “Michael, what did you think?”. “Eh, for me personally I found it a little difficult. She was talking a little to fast for my taste, and then throughout the class, she kept on looking at me for approval” I said.

My friends turned their heads when they heard this. “Well, you’re Mexican though. I mean, why are you even in Spanish? Don’t you already know it?” Eliza then asked, breaking the silence. “No”, I paused, “I wasn’t taught Spanish when I was younger. That’s why I’m taking it now” I stated. “And, I just naturally have had a hard time with it. I’ve taken it for 3 years and I still struggle with it”. “Well, but your parents speak it at home” Allison asked. “No, we really speak only English” I replied. After this, they stopped asking questions, which was nice, because it started to feel as if I was on trial.

“Michael, lol, why are you eating a burrito? Don’t you already eat enough at home?” John then asked. “What?” I exclaimed. “Yeah, if you’re Mexican, don’t you eat stuff like that all the time?” Eliza remarked. “Guys, seriously, I eat the same foods that y’all regularly eat. I was raised like all of you were, speaking English at home and watching the same shows. There is like literally no difference between us” I explained. “But-” John meant to say, but was cut off by the bell and we all headed to class, in silence.

After finishing my last class of the day, AP US History, I left school, and started to walk home. The teacher, Mrs. Brown, was very impressed with my vast knowledge of US History, while the other kids drew a blank when she asked them about WW2. I was very happy about that, and smiled as I walked into the Mexican grocery store, Chavez.

As I walked down the aisle looking for Mission Tortillas, I noticed the Latin brand names of foods that were only in the “Hispanic” sections of grocery stores, to be all around me. And because of this, especially when passing the Pan Dulce section, it all felt very explorative yet familiar at the same time. After finding the tortillas and two pieces of Pan Dulce (because one does), I walked to the front and placed the food on the conveyor belt.

“Is that all?” the cashier said to me in Spanish as she scanned the items. I responded “Yes”, watching her place my items slowly in the bag. “Where do you go to school?” she asked me, however not catching it, I replied “Sorry, I don’t speak Spanish very well” in English. She then stopped scanning my food, then looked at me. “You don’t speak Spanish? But you’re Mexican. Did your parents not teach you?” she said while giving me an eye.

“Yes, I wasn’t raised with it” I answered. “Well, if you can’t speak it, then are you really Mexican? Just saying the obvious. How could you know the culture without learning the language?” she lastly said as she almost threw the bag at me. Needless to say, I left in a hurry.

That night I dreamed that I was stuck in between two walls, one which was red, white and blue, the other, green white and red. However, as I stood in the middle of these walls, I saw that they started to get larger, and in this way closed in on me. My name and appearance didn’t allow me to be American according to the some, and my my loose grip of the Spanish language didn’t allow me to me Mexican for others. Therefore, instead of being able to fit in on either side, I continued to stand in the middle, yet the walls of cultural standards and expectations came closer and closer together.

I woke up sweating when the walls smashed me.

For Further Reading:

"Should Immigration Require Assimilation?" :https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2015/...