“Whenever there was an event at school, he’d come straight from...

“Whenever there was an event at school, he’d come straight from work. Wearing these heavy blue coveralls. Stomping around in these big, chunky boots. He’d have a tag with his name on it: Herbie, written big like. He was always so noticeable. That’s the main thing I remember: the other parents seemed smaller. Maybe not smaller, but sleeker: tight button-tops, khakis. I was one of two Hispanic kids in my grade. I’d only gotten in through a program that sends black and brown kids to private school. But I never felt discriminated against. We all loved the same video games and YouTube videos. Within a few weeks I was going to friends’ houses for sleepovers. These houses were humongous. Everyone had their own rooms. Then I’d go back to our house, in the Hispanic neighborhood. And it was just a square with a triangle roof. And we had like ten people living there. It was different. Behind closed doors, I knew we were different. And that juxtaposition was a little too much to overcome in my head. I felt like if I wanted to fully step into this new role, I needed to shed all that. I’m on the other side of it now. I graduated from a private university. I’m working at a tech start-up. I feel like this was it. When my parents came over, this was their intention. I’ve fully assimilated. But now that I’m here, I kinda miss what I’ve left behind. I’ve lost it. It’s not that I chose another culture. My life just got filled with other stuff, and I let it go by the wayside. I don’t even really speak Spanish anymore. Maybe in very small bursts, or whatever. But I miss the curse words, the slang. I miss it being commonplace. Mainly I just miss being around people like me: feature wise, and stuff like that. At least now that I’m in New York, I can take the train home every other weekend. It’s like a celebration, every time I come back. We don’t all live together anymore; but the whole family’s nearby. Everyone comes over. My dad grills out: steak, tortillas, vegetables. Eating home cooked food, it’s like I’m a kid again. It’s healing in a way. It feels right. Knowing I’m in a good spot. I’ve gotten to where I want to be, but I’m back with the people that I’ve always been with.”