While I was in 2nd grade I had a conversation with my substitute teacher that went something like this:“I’m Mexican.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Like half Mexican?”
“No, both my parents are Mexican.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“You might want to go home and ask your parents.”
“Why?”
“You just don’t look Mexican, they have a darker skin tone. You’re probably Spanish. That’s from Europe.”
“Oh.”

In under a minute this teacher had stripped me of my identity, told me I didn’t look the part, relabeled me and told me my parents were mistaken. Being young and trusting adults, I mistakenly believed him. For the rest of the day I began to shift my mentality. “So I’m Spanish,” I thought. I wondered if my parents knew we were Spanish.

That evening when my mom picked me up, I told her what happened. I described to her the conversation I had with the teacher. I told her that we were wrong this whole time, and that we were actually Spanish. I’ll tell you something; there is nothing scarier than a Latina mom. I had woken up the momma bear, complete with the sharpest set of teeth. My mother wasn’t going to have it. If I had remembered my teacher’s name you bet your apple bottom jeans my mother would have driven him off to some barren school district out in Alaska, for his own safety.

Once the bear had left my house and my mom came back she had these words for me: “Mamita, you need to know that for the rest of your life people are going to try and tell you who you are. No one, no matter who the person is, your teacher, a friend, a teammate – no one ever has that right. You are my daughter. You are your father’s daughter. And in this family we know who we are.” I remember looking at my mom wide eyed and a bit startled.

That morning when I was enjoying my bowl of Fruit Loops I thought it was going to be just another day, but I was wrong. Life had a lesson coming my way with an extra side of knowledge. It stuck with me, and always will. That day wasn’t the last that my ethnicity would be put into question by someone who wasn’t satisfied with my answer. I have had people tell me to “prove it” to speak Spanish so I can earn my Mexican heritage. I used to humor people, stunning them with my flawless accent. Now that I am older I’m done feeling like I need to “prove” my identity. It’s tiring, it’s frustrating, and it’s down right unnecessary.

So let me end this tirade. May this message be put out into the universe once and for all. I know who I am, and I am proud of my lineage and culture; I no longer feel the need to prove a damn thing to you. Stick that in your burrito and eat it.