In 1991 my hometown only had one and a half Mexicans in it. My mother was one, making me the half. She's not like other Southwest Minnesota Mexicans. She didn't come up here looking for work, she moved here from California when she married my father. As far as I know, her family has lived in Sothern California for generations, not Mexico. She's never had problems here with people about her race, and I've only had one. I can still remember it like it was yesterday, even though it's been over ten years. What went on that day in eighth grade has stuck with me, and changed the way I've been ever since.

Lunch had just ended, and everyone was heading outside for recess. There were these two kids in my class, Josh and Ryan, who thought they were the kings of everything. I never cared for these two, and the feeling was mutual. During a routine game of football, something snapped in the brain they both shared. I'm not sure if it was because of a bad play, or what it was from, but they felt the need to unload on me. At first it was little things like 'hey stupid', or 'dumbfuck.' Soon though, it escalated to something much worse. .

"Goddamn wetback. Why don't you just swim back to Mexico," shouted Ryan. .

Then Josh joined in. "Fucking spic." On his face was this little smug look, like there was something comical about what he had just said. This didn't go on long though. Like Bruce Banner turning into the Hulk, something in me broke loose. Instead of going for Ryan, who was scrawnier than me, I charged toward Josh, who had a few good pounds of muscle on him. Like the drunks that run in his family, Josh hit the ground pretty hard. Somehow, with zero fighting skills at all, I managed to put him in a headlock. Every attempt he made to get up off the ground was foiled my my own sheer anger. Finally, Mr. Jensen, the outside monitor, broke us up.

After a grand 'fuck you' to Josh and Ryan, I made the long walk home.