Every individual is
defined, labeled
External opinions are jars with lids
Trapping, pinning
We are slammed into file folders
Shut into boxes
Tucked neatly within the parameters set by society.

For most
Being defined isn’t necessarily a negative thing
For most
A single moment doesn’t imprison us
For most
We are defined by a collection of our bests and worsts
Of our ups and downs
Highs and lows.
For most
Our definition is infinitely evolving
Like a river flows and ebbs
Like a compilation that
Runs
Rewinds
Resets.

But for some
The tape is caught on a glitch
The rewind button gets stuck, won’t budge
The option of a reset out of reach.
One moment is all they get.

“Inmate” or “incarcerated person”
“Prison” or “human cage”
“Reform” or “reimagine”
Each word a powerful reminder of the person held captive
Tied to a label for life.
Each label intrinsically tied to notions of power
Who has it
Who doesn’t
Who should.

We are harming each other in small ways all the time
Being harmed in small ways all the time
The sorting of the condemned is subjective
What determines the
Staining
Smearing
Altering of human worth?

There are words that say
We are giving up on you
We are sending you away
Stamped an outcast forever
Something of a scarlet letter

Language matters
Every ounce of word we breathe
a pound of force behind it
Delicately selected and carefully pruned
Or snatched off a branch and shoved out the mouth

We choose each word we speak
They are freedom
They are prison

The choice is ours.

Amidst the world's kaleidoscopic hue,

Each individual's shade shines through.

In diversity, we find our strengths,

For it is our differences that give us length.

Unique qualities, both big and small,

Are what make us stand tall.

Embrace the quirks that make you you,

For they are what make you true.

Let not sameness be the norm,

But rather, let diversity take form.

For it is in our varied ways,

That we find the light that guides our days.

In my new home, my broken English guided me through the unknown. The air no longer lent a warm hug and my body was deprived of mosquito kisses abundant in the jungle of Playa del Carmen. Here, in Piedmont, question-mark brows tarnished the sea of white faces—at school, in the park, at Mulberry's Grocery—my neighbors demanded answers. Like a map they couldn’t read, they looked deep into my being. One after the other, they seemed to search for an explanation: “What are you?” or “Where did you come from?” chipped away at the armor I once wore with such pride. 

I questioned whether I should continue to exist as a proud Mexicana—one who sang the Mexican anthem at Fourth of July parades and cheered loudest in support of El Tri during each World Cup. I found my skin was far too dark to match even the tannest shade of my friends’ post-vacation glow, and my curls, far too wild to blend in with the rows of straight neat hair. In a desperate attempt to escape from piercing glares and even more painful questions, conformity quickly became routine. 

At the age of ten, I began constructing the “American me” in hopes of blending in. I obsessed over Disney Channel stars and unconsciously adopted their speech and gestures. I did away with the accent over the letter “i” in Sofía, strictly packed pb&js, and said my father’s last name so that the English tongue could pronounce it. 

When I entered high school, I continued to thrive off the validation of my peers, but not without anguish. In defeat, I swapped my favorite Chedraui sweatshirt for a Target Champion hoodie and wore ugg boots regardless of the weather. When my classmates joked about the construction of the U.S./Mexico border wall, I flashed a quick smile and let out a nervous chuckle. Internally, I was in turmoil. My palms sweat at the mention of dehumanizing immigration policies, and my eyes teared when my beautiful culture was distorted. How could the United States, a country so celebrated for its inclusivity, loathe people they’d never met and label them as “un-American”? 

Amidst the pandemic, I began to reflect. 

Why had I been so afraid to stand up to belittling comments?

Why had I spent so long looking for acceptance from others?  

During late-night walks and introspective drives, I looked beyond ephemeral emotions and superficial self-identifiers. 

Who am I?  

I am love—a big sister and mentor to young runners and Abuelito Pato’s helping hand at the stovetop.

I am grit—a culmination of countless over-caffeinated midnights developing seasonal fundraising efforts and long afternoons planning my school’s Hispanic Heritage Month celebration. 

I am passion—a journalist traversing media to highlight overlooked narratives and a self-proclaimed cinema critic whose blog allows her imagination to flourish. 

I am empathy—a political activist working to ensure marginalized communities are adequately counted in the census and a wellness-center student liaison helping my peers feel seen and heard. 

I am a Mexicana, proud of her unruly hair and magnificently rich last name.

I now know that identity does not come from a place, but from a state of comfort in the content of my being. Today, I mentor Latine children from my local elementary school to foster an environment in which they feel safe to share their stories and experiences. I have the privilege of answering questions that consume their thoughts and the honor of helping them understand why they should be proud of their “chocolate milk skin.” I hope to be their guiding light in times of confusion or cultural shame. And through my work, I aim to help them establish confidence in who they are, much like I have. 

So though my neighbors' brows may still furrow at my sight, my armor, painted with red, white, and green, now remains unscathed.