‘‘Leveantate y pon tu ropa en la maleta,’’ my dad said. That was the worst thing he ever said.


“A donde vamos,” I replied.

He didn’t answer, he just told me to hurry up. 3 weeks later I found myself in the corner of a room at Ortega Elementary School starting the 2nd grade. I had to struggle a lot with my English. Coming from Mexico, I remember sitting in the back of the class hearing the piercing voices of the little kids springing all over the room, smelling like oily peanut butter. All I could do is remember my friends that I left in Mexico. Sitting in the corner of the room wasn’t my favorite thing to do. And it seemed that their favorite thing to do was make fun of the little Mexican boy that sat in the corner of the room crying. There used to be mornings that I would beg my mom not to take me to school. I felt disappointed whenever she wouldn’t let me stay home and I felt as if my heart had skipped a beat. So I just stood there in front of my mom with watery eyes and a nut in my throat.
It wasn’t till like 4th grade that I learned to speak the language. I still wouldn’t speak it because I was afraid that people would make fun of me if I didn’t say something right. But then in 6th grade it kind of was necessary to speak it so I started and I was surprised at how easy it was and I felt confident in my English. Now look at me.


I changed from being the little kid that was laughed at to the young man writing this story in English. I especially remember how cruel people were to me. Now, I realize that no matter how much people made fun of me I still learned English.