“Go to the office right now!”, he yelled at me. His faced radiated with redness, as his voice embodied the rage he held inside. There was no doubt that he was angry, and I, a mouthy-relentless-teenager was the object of his anger. “Get out!”, he yelled again, as he pointed his finger to the doors of gym.
One thing that I can always count on, when my suegra visits, is homegirl is going to “get-down” in the kitchen. That lady can cook like there is no tomorrow. And I…. let’s just say that I am 100% fine with that. However, the day after, I can literally hear my arteries crying, as they continue to process all the refined grease (manteca) and spices that we, Mexicans, like to indulge in.
As I walked away, I began to think about experiences that I’ve had since childhood. As a 3rd generation Mexican-American, I could only dream of people embracing my cultural uniqueness....
I rushed home, buried my face in my pillow, & began to cry... I felt as if I was losing control. I felt alone. I felt less-than. I felt shame. I wasn’t supposed to feel this way. Why me? I was trapped in a shell of perpetual fear.