I am always sitting at a window with my elbow on the sill.

Though words are on my paper I am unsatisfied still.

There is nothing left to do but watch the wind blow by,

And I watch the dirt of my backyard as it tries its best to fly.

Look around little one, do you see the birds?

Can you hear the soft sound as their talons leave the earth?

Those little toes will be yours someday, just you wait.

Someday you’ll fly, fly away.

But those pesky little grains of sand could never grow wings.

And though that cold wind looks uplifting, it really isn’t.

No matter how young everyone thinks I am,

That is something that I’ll always understand.

Look around little one, do you see the birds?

Can you hear the soft sound as their talons leave the earth?

Those little toes will be yours someday, just you wait.

Someday you’ll fly, fly away.

I am always sitting at a window with my elbow on the sill.

And though words decorate my paper, I am unsatisfied still.

There is no work left for me as I watch the wind blow by,

I know the draft from my dorm will someday help me to fly.

Look around brown beauty, do you see the birds?

Can you hear the soft sound as their talons leave the earth?

Those little toes will be yours someday, just you wait.

Someday you’ll fly, fly away.

Lately, I’ve read and heard a lot of different cases about covert discrimination. If you don’t know, covert discrimination is exactly as it sounds. Its discrimination that is concealed under condescending tones and pretty sideways glances. It’s discrete though its impact is the same. For instance, in fourth grade, I attended this very upper-middle-class school. It was almost like heaven. There were teachers that cared, programs that catered to students and friends I thought I fit in with. I was like them. Or so I thought.

One afternoon, my cousin decided she wanted to stay the night and my sister decided she wanted to braid her hair. I looked up to these girls. Growing up, it was like I had three sisters and life was alright inside this little bubble in my little world. It’s true that I look in now and see broken things and damaged people but all I saw then was perfection. Anyway, I looked up to them and because of that, I wanted my hair braided too. And because they loved me, they braided my hair.

Now, these were not dainty, normal braids or oddly refined Dutch braids. My sister gave me the same two fierce, distinct French braids she gave my cousin. They started way up by my forehead, included every hair behind my head then ended somewhere around my lower chest. (I had a lot of baby hairs lining my forehead and ears so they didn’t look quite as concise as my cousin’s. I always envied her.) I was proud of my braids because my sister had given me attention and because my cousin said they looked good on me.

So I went to school the next day with my fierce braids and my uniform. I remember I held my head a little higher that day because it was the first time my hair was actually somewhat composed since I had rebelled against my mother’s chongos earlier that year. My classmates and I were all sitting up against the wall waiting for the bell to ring, just like any other day. They talked to me, as far as I can remember, like any other day. Like any other day the bell rang, we all stood up and began entering the classroom one by one after saying good morning to our teacher. I loved this teacher. She was fresh out of college and was very open about her Wisconsin upbringing. She had this nice, always comforting reading voice.

When it was my turn to enter the classroom and say good morning, she stopped me. I smiled up at her and she smiled back. “Don’t tell me you’re turning into one of those girls.” We laughed. I shook my head. I went on with my day like it was any other day. It wasn’t.

Because I am a different person now than I was then, this memory shook me. One day, I was just thinking and this memory clawed its way up from the recesses of my mind and I unwillingly regurgitated it. I thought it over. I spent hours trying to understand her meaning, days trying to understand the joke but my mind keeps coming to the same conclusion every time.

I remember being one of the only brown people in the class. It was so much of an oddity that I even called it a “Special Fact,” about myself. I wasn’t the only Latino student, no. Still, I can’t help but think that maybe she thought this look was leaning more toward the stereotypical characteristics of young Mexican girls than she thought appropriate. To this day, I wonder why it bothered her.

To this day, I still feel uncomfortable in braids.

Now, I’m learning to accept who I am instead of trying to fix it or hide it. I get closer and closer to understanding my heritage and culture every day. Every day, I get closer to finding myself. I realized that Latinas should not feel the need to conform their attributes or style to the “norm” or to please others. Nor should Latinas allow themselves to be torn from their self-confidence and assurance by the covert words of others. We are a strong people. We cannot afford to be fragile enough to let words disguised as jokes or compliments rip us apart. Like Atlas, we carry worlds on our shoulders. (They are worlds full of discrimination, and the discrimination is dressed like sheep.) Unlike Atlas, though, we shouldn’t have to.