We lived in an American city that bordered Mexico’s north. Because of that, the name Margarita combined with my Spanish surname of Hernandez served to set me firmly in an ethnic group that was looked down on. I had yet to be taught what I have since learned, that we are all alike under our skin and we all bleed the same.
I brooded, ‘Why did I have to be in an ethnic group? Why couldn’t I just be ME?’
My mother used to say that I, her dreamy child, was born in the wrong century and I was away with the fairies. People have made assumptions about me based on my name and looks. I am a unique combination of both my parents’ and their parents, and back.
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