The first time I felt Latina was in sixth grade. It didn’t happen when my dad would make Salvadoran rice and beans or pan con chumpe or the chicken soup my abuelita used to make. It didn’t happen when I sang Caballito Blanco at our school’s multicultural day, when I wore my El Salvador shirt and the necklaces my dad had brought back for me during his last visit. It didn’t even happen when I went to El Salvador with my family the summer after fifth grade.
It was when my sixth-grade seat partner told me that he was going to buy me a razor for my birthday so I’d be able to shave my upper lip.Read More