No this is not a political commentary. It’s a personal narrative.
Upon entering the United States of America, I laid eyes on my very first black person ever. It was amazing! She was behind a counter, busy, taking prints. We were in line approaching our turn. She took my small pale hand with her larger dark one. It was awesome. My skinny, nine-year old fingers in her hand, turning and staining the page with my prints. My eyes wide hardly looked at her face because they were entranced in our beautiful mesh of colors.
Due to opposite seasons and school years, I’d started fourth grade in Argentina, but I started it again in Houston in September, 1991. My name had always been Julieta, and in Spanish, for short, my family called me July (Hoolee). Sadly, in our new language, this was also a month and in turn a really weird name. My aunt, who received us in the states, decided I’d go by Julie when she signed us up for school. It’s weird how much your identity can change with a single decision, many times not even your own.
In a border state, since I spoke Spanish, I was instantly considered a Mexican. I was constantly asked if I’d come in a banana truck or a boat and when I answered I’d come by plane, my fourth grade, Hispanic friends were in awe. Apparently, this had been a luxury. On the other hand, driving all the way from Argentina, through the Panama Canal, was an absurdity that my geographically impaired friends did not understand. This might have been the moment I first became an educator. I had to explain to people that I was not from Mexico, that Argentina was not a part of Mexico, and that yes, even though I was a bit lighter skinned than most Hispanics in the area, I spoke a poor English and understood all the gossip in Spanish. Fourth grade was quite a year.
