I was born to a White mother and a Mexican father. I am Biracial, and not a day has gone by where I have not been reminded of this fact. My identity is questioned upon every first meeting, as though I am not valid until someone else can give me their opinion. And I have been given so many opinions. My father was never home when I was a child. He worked hard to make it in an industry that never wanted him to succeed. He once told me he never taught me Spanish out of fear, out of fear that I would be treated the same as him. His accent is gone now, but it still haunts him, sometimes. My mother once told me that I was not a “real Mexican,” but in the same breath told me to check the hispanic box on my college application. “You might get a scholarship, sweetheart. You know how schools are.” I have not looked at her the same since. I grew up Catholic, was raised in churches and was taught to read the bible every night before bed. My father gave me a rosary for my thirteenth birthday, told me to pray to a god I never quite believed in. It is hard to believe in a god that lets you swallow down a whole bottle of pills, a god that lets you tear up your own skin, it is hard to believe in a god that never quite seemed to believe in you. I was diagnosed with clinical depression my freshman year of high school. I was diagnosed with social anxiety disorder my senior year of high school. I was diagnosed with obsessive compulsive disorder my freshman year of college. It is hard to know exactly who you are when the only thing people see in you are your symptoms. I am more than my symptoms. “The best way out is always through.” a quote from Robert Frost’s A Servant to Servants, one that I got tattooed on my body last February. My parents did not talk to me for two weeks after it was done. They are ashamed of what I consider beautiful. They want to cover up my recovery, as though surviving is something to be embarrassed of. Surviving is something to be proud of. I am afraid of the day I have to tell them I am pansexual. I pray to a god I do not believe in to let me fall in love with a nice boy, someone kid and beautiful, someone who won’t hit me like the last boy did. I pray to a god I do not believe in that I might never have to tell them, that I will fall in and out of love with trans-woman, someone non-binary, that I will go through heartbreak that makes me stronger but I will settle down with a husband in the end. Someone that my parents will be proud of, someone who is easy to swallow, someone like the last boy. I do not think my prayers will be answered. and I am getting so tired of praying.
mmc, introduce yourself
