As a child, I thought I was white; everybody around me growing up was white. I was completely immersed in their culture. But after I entered what became a junior high reeducation camp downtown, my heritage was thrown in my face, and I became a target. The world I had grown up in became unfamiliar and threatening. I came from good Mexican American stock, but my heart and identity were deeply rooted in the Anglo community. Neither the Anglos nor the Mexicans saw me as one of them. I was an outsider, lost between two worlds. The Mexicans saw me as a "Pocho" (those born in the US, who are perceived to have largely adopted American culture and are not fluent in Spanish); while many Anglos saw me as nothing more than a wetback; someone who would never be an equal in their world. Yet I lived my best life, pushing back against those who refused to accept that a brown person could advance in their world. There are many good people on this earth to which I owe much, but there are just as many-if not more-evil white folks lurking in plane site, ready to put Mexicans in their place. And that place is cleaning their toilets and tending their fields.
