when silver collides with the world: a memoir about my grapple with identity

A silver stream snakes elegantly through a vast, dark tunnel of trees. Gently but powerfully cascading down with an infinite amount of cadence. The stream gets wider, and wider, into a silver creek. A creek gliding past obstacles with unbelievable grandeur. Boulders will shape the creek, making it twist, turn, toss, its beautiful reflective surface swirling, spitting, chasing. Fasters, faster as is the world has no end, enlarging into a river, the river runs with mad desire. Tossing, flipping, twisting, captivating everything it touches, spreading its wonder, want, and love, until it is nothing but a small stream once again, falling, falling down, furious, until it is nothing but surreal silver droplets floating in the thick air. Every single droplet of its love and wonder captured. The silver stream, the river, the creek, are eternal unless forgotten. But for now, the droplets start over again, falling, falling, falling into a new silver stream to start over again.

“Remember, this is an easy survey. Just tell the truth and try to answer the questions to the best of your ability. There is no right or wrong answer. This survey is about you.” The woman stresses the word you. She glances around the classroom, waving her bushy eyebrows up and down. She locks eyes with me, pushing purple cat eye glasses further up her nose. I look away and start the survey, unaware of what was ahead of me. Soon, I’m going through the questions, telling the truth just like she told us to. They really interrupted my independent reading time for this. “Are you male or female?” “Who lives with you at home?” “Do you have a dishwasher?” The incessant tick of the clock is vibrating through my ears. Every question simply a passenger through my brain, like white noise. I count how many keys are on the computer, letting my mind wander aimlessly away from the screen. I leave my realm of fifth grade imagination when I get to question nine. That one question about race. My race. I squint my eyes and move closer to the screen. The clock is silent. I only hear my heart racing, my breath shaking. Why should I be scared? What can they do? What will they do?

The question is captivating my view. My brow scrunches up in confusion. What if you are more than one? I tried to wrap my mind around the fact that one person could be only one race and I started to ask myself what is race? Soon, I am confused why colors are on the same question that ethnicity is on. Are race and ethnicity the same? What about color? Does black mean African American? Does white mean caucasian? Are they asking me about my skin? Or where my parents are from? Or where I was born? I cautiously glance down at my skin. I hover over the bubble that marks: white. But I don't click on it. I don't, because really, I'm not just “white”, I'm Latina and white. My dad's side is Mexican and my mom's side is white. I glance from my skin to the screen, and back, and forth. Skin. Screen. Skin. I'm scared. Will they not believe me if I put Latina? But why couldn't I just be both? I remember when my mom always says “You should be proud to be Latina” when she finishes a random fireside chat with me and sister, looking at us in the backseat of the car. and when I used to nod my head, oblivious to its significance. I quickly click on Latina and go to the next question, the question still pulsating in my mind. Right? That was right? Right? Maybe not. Maybe not. Maybe I am White. Not latina. White? Latina? I'm both. But why couldn't I just put both? Or am I am an other?

I’m fighting so hard to keep the tears from bursting out. I look up at the ceiling because maybe, just maybe the tears will seep back into me. I can't cry. Everyone seems to be easily filling out that answer. Their ceaseless clicking of their computer keys cuts into my heart. This is supposed to be an easy question, with no “right” or “wrong” answer. But I feel like I got that question all wrong. After what feels like hours, we transition to the rug. My mind is foggy, still stuck on that one question. My eyes are still dewey. I sit down, and my friends eagerly surround me. I feel like moving away. They probably put the right answer to that question. They wouldn't understand my reasoning. They ask me how that survey was. I respond with one word answers. “Fine”. “Did you get to the one they asked about race?” One of them asks. I look up. Both of her parents are white. I’ve been to her house before, been surrounded by her family. Mine aren't, but I look just like her, but on the inside, I'm different from her. My voice, unexpectedly, opens ups like a well-opened page as I say“latina”. She looks at me like I said a curse word. “Bbbb-but you're white, Marisa.” She says, glancing down at my skin. She stares into my eyes. I'm sad and confused and scared. “No.” I say. “No. No. I’m not. I'm both”

I leave. Sitting far, far, away from them. Criss-cross applesauce. Criss cross applesauce. 1, 2, 3, 4 ,5. I try to distract my mind from letting the tears go. They told me I was White. I'm not White, I’m biracial. No one can be just one color. Right? Right? Right? I need reassurance. I need someone to say “Yes Marisa you are right. It's gonna be okay.” But no one says that and now they're staring at me all weird, with their eyes scrunched up into slits. Was that how the world thought of me? White? Did people on the street really just look at me and think I’m White? That's not fair. Not fair at all. You couldn't just look at someone, look at their skin or their hair and determine in one glance that they are white, or Black, or Latino, Asian, or Other. Right? You could be biracial, like me. Tears well up in my eyes, and overflow into fat tears rolling down my face. But it wasn't the kind of cry when you get hurt, not the wailing cry of pain, but tears of vulnerability, tears of confusion. I cover up my face. No one notices.

They said there was no “right” or “wrong” answer. They said it was an easy survey. They said to tell the truth. Don’t lie. But they lied. There is a right and wrong answer. It wasn’t about you. It was about how society looks at you, not how you look at yourself. There is a right answer. There's a wrong answer, too.. I quickly wipe off my tears and I stare at those angry slits with eyes that are sad, mad, disappointed. I don't know. I don't know. Who am I?

When I go home, and I stare at myself in the mirror. I see me. When I look at myself, I see Marisa. I tried to put myself in the shoes of a stranger. I used to call it “defamiliarizing”. And I see how they could think that. I look through to my green eyes, brown hair and white skin. I do look white. But that makes me more confused than ever. Why do people look a certain way? And I continue staring, watching as the picture in the mirror blurs up because of my tears, watching as my glass is tainting. Because when you look through the world in tears, everything looks like blurs of color mixing together like paint. Everything is too blurry for people to be judgemental. No stereotypes. You can't judge anyone when you look through the world with tears.

Sometimes I feel like the world is a crayon box. Each color with its own individual box. They don’t mix. You can’t mix crayons. And when they do mix, it looks like chaos, overlapping over each other, the waxy scribble refusing to mix. And I hate our world for that. I hate that. I wish we could be like watercolors, mixing together with the tears shed in the light of stereotypes to create a beautiful painting. I wish. But i can't have. Patience.

After this experience, my whole world changed. I understood what race was, and I understood that it wasn't really a thing. I understood how I looked from another perspective. I understood not everyone thinks the same way I do. And I really started to notice things. Not only about me, but about my Daddy. About us. About how society separates us. This experience wasn’t just an identity crisis that I came over, it was a turning point in my life. It's like I woke up from a good dream to the harsh reality of the world and the lights were turned on. But I had to learn to adjust to the light.

Vulnerable, young. New to this world. Empty of hatred, empty of stereotypes, full of love. Me in my father's arms, my white skin mixing with his beautiful dark brown skin. Daddy. We walk home from the metro every day in Kindergarten and I'm holding his hand as we cross the street and a man passed by, looking at my small hand in my Daddy's protective hand and he looks really worried when he sees us. I think maybe he just had a sad day at work, and he’ll get better. I don't realize it's because he thinks my Daddy is trying to harm me. But he would never do that. I didn't realize it then, but I do now.

I'm sitting with my dad. Our arms are intertwined, because I'm freezing from the cold water of the pool I just jumped into and his warmth is surrounding me, making me feel a lot better. Warmer. A woman passes by and gives me a dirty look. She slits her eyes, just like the girls in 3rd grade, and her lips form into a disappointed line. She’s mad. She looks at my dad, then to me. She moves on while shaking her head. Daddy, I don't know if you notice these things, but I do. Everyday. Now, I notice the eyes that long to tear us apart. I saw how the girls looked at me. I see the eyes of worry: “a Mexican holding a white girl’s hand?” “No, no, it couldn't be.” “Is she being kidnapped?” “Is she okay?” “No, you are White” “Is she adopted?” Of course, I've never heard anyone actually say this, but I see it. I see eyes of worry, eyes of hatred, slitted eyes. Eyes that say we don't belong together, but I yearn to say, yes, yes he is my biological dad. Eyes that say I don't belong in a certain category. I've seen the looks on my teammates face when she says “oh, marisa i have never seen your biological dad before” and I begin to explain to her why she shouldn't think this way. I see how their eyes change when they ask if we need two separate checks. All they see is a man and a little girl together. They want to tear us apart. The one that wakes up 2 hours earlier than he usually would just to walk me to the metro to hug me goodbye. The one who supports me in anything I do. The one who teaches me lessons about life, about how to be a better person. They don’t see any of that. And that makes me sad.

They don’t know I've seen the looks. I’ve seen how society enjoys shaping me into their vision of White and shaping my dad into their version of Mexican. Shaping us. Then tearing us apart. Shaping me. A destructive sculptor, shaping with an intense focus, just to tear us apart again. I've seen it. It's okay. He won't hurt me. Its okay, I'm fine. Daddy, I Don't know if you see these eyes that yearn to tear us apart, but I do. Everyday. But that's okay. No one can tear us apart. Hatred can’t tear love apart, right? I see it. And I understand it. But I choose to ignore. Let them judge me. But I’m tired of ignoring. I’m tired of glancing away from eyes that stare at me. I’m tired of not knowing who I Am. I’m tired of disbelief. I'm tired of people telling me who I am. I’m scared right now. Because whoever is reading this, or listening to this, might not believe me, might judge me or shake their head in disbelief. This story has been I'm scared, and I’m sorry I don't trust you to believe me. Just that the way society has shaped me to think because hardly anyone ever believes how I actually am. But I do. And that's what matters. I'm scared because what you see as an alien I see as my dad. And I'm just starting to wipe off my glass. And you should too.

- thank you for reading this.