Just like every elementary school day, I would get picked up by my mom, she would chat a little with other moms and we would walk home when she would casually greet the crossing guard in this 3 lane street we always crossed. When I got home, I would start doing my homework and my mom would go to the kitchen to start cooking dinner. The curtains would be half opened because enough light was provided. I could smell the aroma of my mom’s food and guess what she was cooking. The tv would be on even while I was doing my homework. But my mom always had it on the Spanish news so I wouldn’t get distracted.
But certainly one day I got distracted by it. While I was doing my homework one spring afternoon, I directed my attention to the tv when I overhead a woman crying. But she didn’t look sad. Right next her was her son smiling. I had realized she was crying of proudness. I heard the the news reporter talk about how the son was a first generation Mexican American and his parents were immigrants. They talked about how he had a full ride to a great college. I knew it had to be a big deal if it was on the news so it inspired me at the time because I knew I was Mexican. I wanted to see my parents be that proud of me. After that day, I started to question my identity and the identities of my parents.
