Personal Narrative: My Hispanic Family

I looked at my cousin in dismay as she said, “Be proud that your skin is light, primo. People won’t judge you.” Despite my Hispanic family’s efforts to instill me with pride in my Hispanic culture, I often felt conflicted with a sense of identity. Here I was, standing outside the house, consuming every ray of sunlight that danced upon my skin in a desperate attempt to be darker. My Hispanic family tried their best to teach me to be proud of my heritage, but my Caucasian family always taught me that white was superior.
I grew up in a world where I was torn between who I was and what others wanted me to be. I was a biracial child in a monoracial society. My Guatemalan father and my Casuauain mother were often ridiculed for having “impurities”

as children. This often led me to question if I was “Hispanic enough”, or if I was merely a “White impurity” like everyone said. This double consciousness made me resent myself. I did not know how I could prove myself in a world where I was deemed inadequate.
As time passed, my adversities only grew. I soon found myself purchasing food and preparing meals because my parents were never home. I would come home to my father, unconscious and intoxicated, while my promiscuous mother was selling drugs and not paying our bills. I felt as though the weight of the world was upon my shoulders. How was I to able to meet the expectations of others? How was I going to be successful in life? I was lost in a world that I did not understand.
Once my parents separated, my four younger sisters and I moved back and forth between my parents. We had to endure the domestic violence and abuse of my mother’s toxic relationships while also living without electricity, running water, food, and a house. We were homeless—moving from hotel to hotel. The fights between my mother and her boyfriend only escalated. Meanwhile, my father was in the hospital and on the verge of death.
One night, I heard screams of torment raging like wildfire. I walked into a room with glass and blood scattered everywhere. My mother was gasping for air as her boyfriend choked and punched her. I reacted quickly—putting myself in the middle. Everything went black and the world felt as though it paused for a brief moment.
“Here’s your new home...” the social worker told me months after I was taken into child protective services. I was separated from my sisters, my family was broken, and my world was falling apart. I was a fifteen year old boy, destitute and despondent.
This same year, I was accepted into the North Carolina School of Science and Mathematics (NCSSM). Both of my parents’ rights were eventually terminated and I was finally liberated from the pain that I had to endure. But despite my academic success, I still felt the burden of anguish and distrust. I felt as though I did not recognize the boy that looked into the mirror. I felt like another stigma: a vagrant foster child.
After my junior year at NCSSM, I realized that my journey for validation was over. I came to realize that neither the amount of melanin in my skin, nor my peers’ opinions of me defined me. I, Victor Yax, define me. I no longer had to live in the shadows of what society deemed me to be. I was finally able to write my own story where I, the sole foster child and Guatemalan-American at NCSSM, could disprove the prejudices of others. In this story, I can be a first-generation college student. I no longer dream of having the “perfect life” or being the “perfect person”. Instead, I dream to be me.
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