A common point preached to me was to love my family, and in my older, more aggressive age, I began to question if that was truly necessary. Family members are supposed to care about you and do whatever in their power to make you safe, that’s their responsibility. Keyword: responsibility. It is not a privilege to be nurtured by family, that is to be expected of them and requires little gratitude; they knew what was expected when they became a parent. So why is it that so many teens and children are told that they should be grateful for their parent's actions? I should not have to thank my parents for providing me the basic necessities to live and be happy; I have a right to be safe and happy with or without them. I will always remember the first time I mentioned this to my own parents. They believed I was arrogant, stupid, an ingrate. Maybe they were right.
    

It was just as I turned fifteen that our argument happened. Despite efforts, I grew to have more liberal beliefs in contrast to some of my family’s conservative ones, and often we argued back and forth; but it was all in good spirits. Perhaps that day we were feeling more upset than usual, or perhaps I wanted to pick that fight, I still am unsure. The adults of the family were discussing current affairs, adults being my father, grandfather, and grandmother. The topic of Mexico came up, specifically those who cross the border with no American citizenship. I expected civility but was instead met with anger and disdain. Different sentences, same meaning. Over, and over, and over, and over. The problems of America being shifted onto the backs of foreigners despite their lack of relationship to any of the problems, the supposed willful ignorance of these people and their inability to work; all these things said, but all I heard was the denial of half my heritage. My mother, angry yet silent, and stubborn as she is, never said anything back to them. She knew what would happen if she did. I was silent too. Only, I was silent because I was angry.
    

It wasn’t fair. It’s never fair. It’s not fair that I already appear so white when my brother gets to have the darker skin. It’s not fair that at such a young age, I learned to hate myself because the biggest traitor to me and my heritage were my own genes. It’s not fair that when I talk about my own culture, I’m told that it’s not mine to talk about until they see my Mexican mother. It’s not fair that I have to try so hard to learn a language that I should’ve grown up with, but didn't because it was believed that I’d have better chance in life and to get to college. And it sure isn’t fair that not once have I ever had a real conversation with a major part of my family, the part that, despite never even getting to see me or hear me, supports me and wants to see me succeed most. It’s not fair my heritage was ripped from me so I could be more white.

And it’s a bitter resentment I hold today, knowing that despite their best efforts to make me white, I still am not the favorite grandchild. That the eldest cousin is the favorite. You know? The blonde hair and brown eyed one? That plays volleyball and wants to go to business school? The one that texts her family in California over the holidays and everyone is so excited to hear from, except for one girl who can’t look in the mirror longer than a few seconds. It makes sense, though. It was easy to choose her over the kid with the burning identity crisis, the one who knew what she wanted but didn’t know how to get there. She wanted to be more Mexican, more herself, but whenever she was asked, she’d just say she wanted to be a doctor; she learned people liked that answer better than the truth.

Is it my job to make my own happiness, or was my family supposed to provide that? They’ve treated me well, and I do love many of them! But, sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I got the chance to grow up being a biracial kid, an actual Mexican and white girl. Would I be better, worse, the same? Would I still harbor a secret resentment towards one side of my family? And will I ever tell them how I feel? Or would that be viewed as an invalid and aggressive opinion, an ungrateful action, or a stab at rebellion; or would they believe me, validate my opinions, and apologize? I don’t know, maybe I never will. I hope that one day I’ll feel like the Mexican I am, that I’ll feel valid. Until that day, I say, “Lo siento, mi familia y lo siento mucho, mi mamá.”