The Perfect Day

Jazzmyn+Prado+and+Deborah+Prado+dressed+in+patriotic+clothes+on+the+4th+of+July+one+summer+night+during+their+childhood.

Jazzmyn Prado and Deborah Prado dressed in patriotic clothes on the 4th of July one summer night during their childhood.

It was one of those mornings where you can’t sleep the night before. Like the night before you leave for vacation or before your big birthday party. You just can’t help but think about all the fun you are going to have. 

For me, that day was the 4th of July. Since I was about 7 years old, my parents would always host this huge 4th of July celebration at my house, a day of pure freedom and chaos. A day dedicated to only outdoor activities, whether it’d be countless cannonballs in the pool or seeing how many watermelon slices we could stuff our faces with. 

At dawn, my mother would always come into my sister’s and my room expecting a battle to wake us up. “Órale girls! Get up! We have a lot to do today!” She didn’t even finish her sentence before our feet met the hardwood floor, making their way to the shower to get the day started. My sister and I had never been so excited, so ready to sweep the floors and vacuum the rugs because we were on a mission. The day couldn’t start soon enough. 

We would take our time choosing our outfits, slipping into fabrics of bright reds, playful blues and patriotic white stars. Once suited up, we began our plan of attack: how to maximize the amount of fun we were going to have.

After an eternity of chores, it was finally 1:00, which meant it was time to party. DING DONG, a melodious tune , telling us the first family had arrived. Soon after, there was another ring, and another, and the house steadily grew with liveliness and chatter, filled with my friends and family, mis chicos y chicas, my people, mi gente

Eventually the door that constantly opened and closed… just stayed open, inviting any and all to come in and join our festivities. Soon, a cool breeze came in and settled, and no one could tell the difference between the inside and outside: summer was everywhere. 

With so many things to do, I was never in one place for more than 10 minutes, from driveway chalk sessions, to tractor-pulled wagon rides in my backyard; and as I rode along in that bumpy red wagon, I couldn’t help but just look up. The sky had never been so blue, the clouds like soft cotton candy, perfectly aligned to be any shape I wanted them to be. 

After a few hours, it was time for the main event, and my favorite part: the food. The smell of carne asada drenched in lime filled the air, right next to a bottomless cooler of ice cold drinks. As we all formed a line to eat, it was then that I truly was able to see all the faces who had come to celebrate. 

I saw my tíos and my papi, the self-proclaimed grill masters who wouldn’t let a soul dare come near the food until they had cooked it to perfection. “You don’t understand, mija! This meat is the real thing, you won’t find it in any Walmart, trust me.” 

Then, I saw my tías, who were constantly on-the-go, checking to see if there were enough plates, if my mom needed any help, and if their kids had broken anything yet. 

Then, there was us, the kids. My posse, my entourage, my group who I had grown up with my whole life, my closest familia. Whatever was happening, no matter if it was to play, to swim, to eat or just to talk, we stuck together. When we all sat down, we connected, as if we hadn’t seen each other in years and we only had today to catch up with one another.

Then when the sun began to set the real party started. Fireworks. 

My family would tame the pickup trucks to drive over to the neighborhood park, only five minutes away, which is why the parents would allow the kids–just this once–to ride in the back of the trucks.

I can still remember that feeling: the breeze blowing against my face,  brushing past my hair. The crisp night summer air that never seemed to end, and my padre blasting his mariachi music on the radio. I was in my element. How could I not? On a day like this nothing could go wrong; I knew what to expect, what the day would bring, or at least I thought so.

Like, every year, we arrived at the park and began to unload all our things as if we were about to go camping. What can I say, we Hispanics love our stuff. 

As we finished unloading, we began to head over to the main area where the fireworks were. Unfortunately, we didn’t get very far before running into some … unfriendly people. 

Now, these people were my dad’s age. Two tall white guys whose breath reeked of one too many Bud Lights. They began to throw their cans and trash at us, “What are you doing here, beaners?” “Go back to your country, wetbacks!” and “You don’t deserve to be here.” 

What did they just say? What did they just call us? 

It all happened so fast, yet so many emotions flooded within me:  fear, confusion, anger. I didn’t know what to do or how to react. All I could do was just walk away and wonder why those men said those things. 

And for the longest time, my confusion and unanswered questions remained unanswered. 

“Dad, what does wetback mean?”  

“Dad, why did they throw stuff at us?”  

“Dad, do you know him?” 

For the longest time, my dad just ignored the questions, and looking back, I’m glad he did, because although, at the time, I was really curious to understand what was going on, there was no way I could have, and either way, what could I have done? Just live with those insults in the back of my mind? 

My dad later explained to me that the words that those men once shouted were derogatory and should never be repeated. When I was older I realized that we had been persecuted, not because we did anything wrong, but simply because we were Hispanic. 

That became the beginning of me realizing that I was different, and that racism existed. 

I also believe that is what then sparked my motivation for people pleasing. If everyone liked me and I put on a friendly front, then nobody would have any reason to hate me, be bothered by me, or find me annoying. 

Yet, something still felt off. 

Why do I feel isolated? Is it because I don’t have enough friends? Is it because I eat different foods than the other kids? Is it because I was only one of four Hispanic kids in my entire school? 

Bingo. 

Throughout the years, I’ve learned that my differences never go away. I will never be another skin color, never eat the same food, think the same way, act the same. And at first, that worried me; in fact, it terrified me, I tried so hard to not be so…Hispanic, but Lord knew that it was not possible. 

The thing is, who I am, my culture, my heritage, my roots, will never outgrow me, because it grows with me. You can’t deny your identity once you have found it and know it to be true. It’s impossible to shake, which is why when I embraced, and became proud of who I was, my friends, mi familia, supported me.  In fact, they asked me questions, “What kind of food do you eat?” “How’s your family’s life here differ from America?” “Is there a way I can participate in Hispanic culture and holidays?” 

It has brought so much joy to my heart. Although there are those out there who spread hate, there are twice as many who are here to spread love and awareness, to learn more about one another, and each of our backgrounds, and what it is that each of us has to offer. 

So, instead of focusing on the inevitable and ever-present ounce of hatred that may come along now and then, I now know to simply tune it out. Instead, I choose to focus on what is important: love and acceptance, no matter gender, religion, or race; and let me tell you from experience, one is way more liberating than the other.

Editor’s Note: This story was adapted from an assignment for Dual Credit Composition.