Cal in Color

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.

As “Deen,” I no longer had to be the ambassador for my name’s origin. I could just be an “American,” freed from the shackles of my name’s uniqueness in this country.

He simply needed to hear the reasons why what he believed in was wrong, and my initial attempt at doing that wasn’t empathetic or conducive enough.

She unwittingly reduced me and other black and brown boys to quotas on her diversity dashboard (or headboard, for that matter).

Sociocultural ideologies have affected my understanding and approach to not just my sexuality, but to women in general.

I received this lofty treatment merely because, as an American, my relatives subconsciously associated me with capital and with power — or, more specifically, with access to it.