When I was in the first grade, my teacher didn't acknowledge my existence or give me the time of the day like the other kids. I did my best to get her attention, but she always ignored me. Everyone else got picked on when they raised their hand, but I never did. I didn't understand why she resented me so much.

One day, my father showed up to my classroom in his military uniform to wish me goodbye. My teacher immediately changed her attitude toward me and began to take pictures. She joked around saying that she thought I came from a crop-picking family and had no clue I came from a military one. She hung those pictures proudly on the front of the door and finally picked on me whenever I raised my hand.

When I was 11-years-old, I had a playdate with my friend who always made me pick the tan colored Barbie because she preferred the blonde Barbie. She said that was her favorite Barbie because she wishes she was blonde-haired with blue eyes, not black-haired with brown eyes. I told her that she was silly and that she shouldn't care about appearances because I just wanted to play with her. In annoyance, she said, "You don't get it, I like her because I wish I looked like her. I hate being brown-haired with brown eyes, I'm ugly."

When I lived in El Paso, Texas I went to a public middle school where the majority of the students were Hispanic. Ross Middle School was one of the worst middle schools in Texas but was close to where I lived. I was part of the gifted and talented program so each day we were escorted to different buildings and teachers.

I had a total of 30 classmates including myself, which all came from unique backgrounds. There were only four Hispanic kids including myself. Lunchtime was horrendous because it was divided into six different times instead of two. We were able to have lunch with everyone else, but since we were part of an "exclusive group" we ended up sitting alone or in a corner together. Many Hispanic girls during this hours would make nasty rumors about me or to my friends. They would say that I was too "white-washed" or "out of touch with my roots" to know who I really was.

These are just a few encounter I have had regarding my race and ethnicity at a young age. For a short period of time, I began to question if having a Hispanic first name and speaking Spanish was something I should hide or be proud of. You see, if you hear my full name you would automatically assume a stereotype for me.

I hated that so much growing up because I wasn't the hatred or stereotypes people painted on me. I was so much more, but only they could choose to see that. It was hard to realize at a young age due to my environment and personal encounters. I mean how could first grade me process the fact that I had a teacher who dislike me simply because she assumed where I came from. You can't and it is a shame that many years later I learned the ugly truth.

The one thing that never made me go down the path of hating my race was the fact that I had family members and friends who constantly reminded me of the passion and history my people brought to America and my household. From the priority of family coming first to the dinners, we would cook and share, I knew I made a terrible mistake of ever doubting where I came from.

Even now, I have had moments where my skin-tone or last name was frowned upon. The difference now is that I am proud of who I am and where my background comes from. I will never allow for the hatred of others to question something that makes me who I am.