When I was in elementary school, I remember trying to become friends with a group of kids I thought were cool. I would try to spend every minute of recess with them, sit at their table during lunch, and walk with them after school to the parent pick-up area. I am not proud of this, but I had even left my little kindergarten friend group to join this new group. After about two weeks of trying to become friends, I noticed that only one of the kids in the group actually wanted to be my friend. The others put me through "tests".

Whatever they asked of me, I would do. Including, but not limited to, giving up some of my snacks during our breaks or even some of my lunch if my mom had packed something good. Yet, I still was not officially part of the group. It all came down to one last test. I was a "bigger" kid back then, so to stack the odds against me, the group challenged me to a race. And all I had to do was beat one of the three kids in the group. Just one.

At that age, I was all about speed. Growing up I loved playing with race cars that my parents would get me. My dad would play along and interview me as if I was an F1 world champion. I remember having Hot Wheels branded shoes that my parents had bought me from Payless. (SIDE NOTE: Is Payless still around? I should look that up later.) The shoes had a little speedometer in the heel which moved the needle inside with every step. Not at all a gauge for actual speed, but in my mind, the faster I ran, the higher I went up on the speedometer. Also around this time, I was also really into the comic book hero, The Flash. Why? Because he was fast. Needless to say, my confidence in speed meant that I could beat one of the three boys in a race.

We lined up, someone counted down, and we took off. One of them, the kid who always put me through the tests, took off. No way I could catch him. The second kid, who was indifferent about me being part of the group, was close behind him. But the last one, I think his name was Nick and the only one who actually wanted to be friends, was having a tough go. Halfway through the race, I passed him. Sprinting as fast as I could, I imagined the speedometer in my shoes showing me at top speed. I was The Flash. We touched the tree that was designated as the finish line. I came in third. I beat one of them. I was now part of the group.

Except, the first kid, let's call him Gary because I can't remember his name anymore, quickly turned around to say that I hadn't passed the test.

"But you said I just had to beat one of you guys," I remember telling him. Nick, still trying to catch his breath, backed me up.

"Yeah Gary, he beat me, I came in last," he explained. But Gary wasn't having it. I was confused. I passed the test. Gary himself had made up the rules. I was mad. As mad as a 7-8 year old could be. I walked up to him.

"Why won't you let me be part of your group?" I asked.

"Because you're Mexican! We're White!" he replied, "Now leave us alone or I'll tell Miss (teacher's name that I can’t remember)."

I can't remember my exact response. But I remember realizing that I wasn't The Flash. I was not a race car driver, I was not speed. I was Mexican.

Growing up, my parents taught me that to be accepted, I had to be a good person. It's not like I didn't know I was Mexican—I grew up speaking Spanish to my abuelita and others whenever we would go to Mexico. But in this situation, being called Mexican felt strange, because it meant that despite what my parents had taught me, being a good person wasn't enough. I didn't belong, simply because of where my family came from. No amount of confidence in my ability, overlap in our interests, or willingness to bend over backwards would change that acceptance wasn’t there.

That one moment taught me many lessons, some of which I'd like to explore as I continue through this blog journey. What happened that day kickstarted a long road of rediscovery and appreciation of who I am. I stand between two cultures, a perfect blend of the past, present, and future. It may have taken me over 20 years to realize this, but I'm glad I did.

This blog is about that journey. While there have been good moments along the way, it wasn't always an easy road to navigate. Finding a group to belong in can be difficult. Finding a group where you belong and then being comfortable sharing your story can be even tougher. I hope that my story can inspire those who are also trying to rediscover themselves and where they fit in this world. My stories might have a Mexican/Hispanic flair to them, given my heritage. But I believe this is something that can apply to all of us. Whether you're a child of immigrants trying to bridge two worlds, or someone who has ever felt caught between identities, this space is for you too.

Where do I belong?