I was about eleven years old if I can recall correctly when my mother had lost our apartment. My mother was the kind of person that always was willing to help. At that time we lived in a two bedroom apartment. She was a waitress at a club and would work nights. That summer she met many women whom needed help. Some had just come from México others had problems with husbands, boyfriends, families and more. She would let these women stay with us but it was never just them. Somehow they had kids, and relatives that also needed help, and yes they would end up staying with us. I hated every moment. I thought it was a horrible idea, because it always turns into a soap opera. No good can come out of too many people in one house. Sure enough, people would drink have fun but soon the fights would start. Ruckus would blast through the walls and people would complain. I would simply just hide anywhere I could, the closet, the bathroom or school. Then one day we got a notice that we were to be out in thirty days. Where would we go? I asked. She would yell and get mad so I did not push. Thirty days passed and all we had was our bags filled with as much as we could. We tried going to my grandmothers but like they say “A dead dog begins to smell after three days”. My mother got into a fight with her brother causing us to have nowhere to go. We slept in the car, or the park, with a friend, with an aunt and it continued for weeks.
The thing about all of this is, and I will never forget, is not that we were homeless. It was the day I showed up to my grandmother to shower. I was wearing light purple overalls, I had on gold small hoop earrings, and my hair was in a ponytail. I was exhausted from sleeping on a bench at the park. I walked in and the first thing I heard was “wow Karla you look so Mexican like you just came from México” “like a wetback”. It took everything for me not to cry. All I could think of was how could my mother’s sister say that? Had she forgotten where she came from? What else was I supposed to look like? After all, I am Mexican and so is she. Sure, we look different. I have black hair and brown eyes and she is light skin, freckles and auburn hair but we came to the US the same exact way.
I was five when I came to the US. I was eleven when I was told I looked Mexican. I was also eleven when I realized that this world could be sad and people could be so insecure. I was also eleven when I learned to have pride. I am twenty seven and I’m still Mexican, have black hair, brown eyes, have pride, love wearing purple and I am extremely happy.
