Personal Narrative: I Am Mexican In The 21st Century

I am Mexican in the 21st century. Many who just look at me couldn’t tell you so. Being Mexican is a part of me cast aside by others, as if my culture, my very essence, is a pebble among stones.
I want everyone to know how much I despise the attempts to make my culture vanish, with words of how “lucky” I am to have straight black hair and pale skin, how “lucky” I am to be able to hide the Mexican blood that goes through my veins. As if somehow I should be thankful that no one can see my blood, only my appearances, for if they could I would be no different than my Mexican brother who wasn’t quite as “lucky”, born with brown skin tanned by nature. How shocked they would be to find out how I desire to resemble him, so my blood would no longer be rejected.
They’d be shocked how I wish to be more like my brother, whose tongue can’t help but roll the R’s of street names like a rolling pin on the bread of America. He can't speak the name of his hermanos without the chance of being stopped for suspicious activity. Despite this, I still want everyone to know that I am Mexican and spoke Spanish until I was forced to drop my native tongue that carried stories, such as El Principe Oso, and memories of past lives, for a language I couldn’t balance on my
How could I ignore our holidays, such as the Day of the Dead which is filled with remembrance and spiritual prayers all around, bright colors, graveyards with the colors of the rainbow, new skins of skeletons all around? How could I ignore the foods I grew up with, such as soapapillas hollow, coated in sugar, fluffy pastries, that comforted me in my time of need? How could I ignore the music my mother sang to me for years before bed, her accent highlighting the r’s, “Me quiero casar. Con una señorita que sepa bailar”? How could I ignore my entire life which has been outlined by my culture and people, from the way I cook to how I