(½) “My mother and I came from Costa Rica when I was...

(½) “My mother and I came from Costa Rica when I was seven. And on the first day of third grade I was jumped because I didn’t speak English. Two kids held my arms, while the third punched me in the stomach. I didn’t know how to say: ‘Why?’ So I kept saying: ‘But what? But what?’ Before then I’d always been a chipper child. I was eager for life. I sang a lot of songs. I spoke joyfully to myself. But by the time I got to junior high I never smiled anymore. My school was in Hunt’s Point so you could see Riker’s from our classroom. My first priority every day was to get home safe. Teachers were getting beat up, lockers were being set on fire. I never raised my hand in class. I was a straight up C student. All day long I wore an expression that said: ‘You don’t know me. So don’t mess with me, or you might get hurt.’ It wasn’t true, of course. I was just scared. When it was time for high school I tried applying to specialty schools, but got rejected by each one. My only option was the ‘zoned’ school next to my housing projects, which meant more of the same for me. Our guidance counselor encouraged me to apply for a sponsorship program for ‘at risk’ kids, and I was assigned to a Catholic school on the Upper West Side. It wasn’t elite or anything. But it was safe. For the first time I felt safe. I was coming from a classroom where I’d get teased or hurt for raising my hand. But now I was in a place where it was praised and encouraged. My old eagerness came back. I started smiling again. Every morning I took an hour-long subway ride. And as soon as we crossed into Manhattan, there’d be this influx of white people wearing expensive clothes. I was determined to be part of that world. That very first year I started making straight A’s. I signed up for every club, every team. I even received the school spirit award. I was getting ready to apply for college when a letter came to our house. My mother couldn’t read English, so she handed it to me. I was too hurt to read the entire thing. But I remember the first line: ‘Your application for permanent residency has been declined because your household income is too low. The next step is voluntary deportation.”