Marina Roman Cantu

Consider this an epilogue and a love letter to the past few months I’ve been far from home, studying abroad at UC Berkeley.

Berkeley came to me as a surprise and as amazing as everything has been, the most rewarding revelation of all was the people that I got to meet here.

Whitexicans are thought of as a big joke in Mexico, from their accents to the way they dress (usually wearing a “Mexico is the s—” bomber jacket).

All my life, I’ve attempted to avoid falling into the labels and categories being thrown my way, but stereotypes exist for a reason. Sometimes they can even be true to a certain extent.

It is as if the moment we cross the threshold of our twenties, there are no more instructions we’re set to follow.

It’s been only since arriving in the United States that I’ve subconsciously “Americanized” my name to suit the American English phonetic pronunciation.

“Happy International Women’s Day” is not something you can say in Mexico, and if you do say it, all you’re going to get are weird looks and maybe even a scolding.

I come from a family where no one has ever questioned their Catholic beliefs; they’ve accepted them with a sense of belonging and familiarity.

Trying out Mexican food turned out to be a counterproductive activity. It made me miss food from home even more. It also reminded me of my family and its cooking, which is the closest thing I have to a religious faith.

Since arriving in the United States, I’ve stumbled upon the concept of racial identity. In Mexico, we don’t talk about race.