Cal in Color

In Berkeley, everyone was to me — as I was to them — an afterthought, a relationship preserved at night and over weekends after the day’s, or week’s, work was done.

Although the Dreamhouse does exist, it’s only home to the 1% of Barbies and Kens, protected in their luxury and freedom of expression by systemic discrimination and capitalist structures.

As Western ideals seeped into Indian neighborhoods, the beauty standards evolved to become exclusionary, only accepting bodies that fell straight.

My clasped control on my manicured identity had given me multiple eating disorders and a vapid social circle with no one to really talk to.

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.