1st grade:
     I walked into class excited but confused at the same time. I didn’t know anyone and no one knew me and that was okay for now because I liked the huge trees outside my window and the cold was alright, I guess.
     I looked around at everyone and all I saw were blonde kids, brunette kids, redheads. No hijabs or cornrows like in kindergarten. I remembered Etarma from Tibet who had pushed me down Broadway in a double stroller. And Izumi, whose mom was Japanese and whose dad was Argentinian. Somaya, whose mom was Bangladeshi. We went to Frog Park one day after school. Everyone started pretending that they were pirates. I just sat there and admired everyone’s hair because it was so pretty and straight and dark and mine was kinda curly and kinda dirty blonde. Izumi pulled me along to the play structure to play hide and go seek with some new kids. We played for a while before the mom with a nose ring and pink hair pulled her  kid aside.
     “Alright Hudson, we’re going to go visit grandma now! He smiled and giggled and clapped his hands.
     “Bye guys, thanks for playing with me,”
     “Bye, Hudson,” I said, and the pink-haired lady smiled. But she didn’t just smile: her eyes smiled and her heart smiled. She was happy because the 4-year-old white girl and the 3-year-old Asian girl and the 4-year-old Bangladeshi girl and the 5-year-old white boy were friends now. And who cared if they were white or Asian or Bangladeshi? They were all human and they were all friends. And I smiled back because who cared if she had a nose ring and pink hair? Because she was still a mom and she still smiled at me and now I had two new friends.

5th grade:
     Last night my brand-new, shiny purple iPod nano, 4th generation came in the mail. Anna rode the bus home with me and we made a list of songs I should download.
     “Get the new Hannah Montana album, of course.”
     “Yeah I will. What else?”
     “Well I heard this song on the radio when my brother drove me to Mina’s house the other day… But it had, like, swear words in it.”
     “What’s that?”
     “Like you know, like… Crap. And stuff. You’re not supposed to say ‘em.”
     “Why not?”
     “Because, like, bad people say ‘em. Like those black men in Seattle on the side of the street. I heard them say that word one time.”
     I heard my mom say that word one time too, when she got a paper cut from an envelope. Does that mean she’s a bad person too?

7th grade:

     I was scared riding the bus to the International District because I was sitting next to a black lady with cornrows and big tattoos and everyone had told me people like that could hurt you. I kept glancing from my purse and the woman. What if she tried to steal it? It was broad daylight, she wouldn’t do that. But would she? My mind was racing from 3:17 to 3:23, for 6 short minutes that seemed like an eternity. My heart was fluttering even though my friend was sitting right there next to me and the woman with the cornrows was simply sitting there smiling at everyone that boarded the bus. Then it was our stop at 5th and Jackson and I stood up. She touched my arm and I almost jumped but didn’t.

     “Be safe, honey. God bless you.”
     I was ashamed.

11th grade:
     I’m at my aunt’s wedding reception and there’s a girl in line next to me that looks like she’s around my age so I smile at her and she smiles at me.
     “Hi, I’m Regan,” she says, “are you Neal’s niece?”
     “Oh, no actually Nelly’s. I’m Kaylie.”
     “Oh cool! Are you from around here?”
     “No, I actually live in Oregon, kinda near Portland?"
     “Oh okay, cool! Yeah Portland's cool, I went there once with my parents. They’re the drunk ones over there,” she says as she points to the wooden dance floor. A middle aged man with curly hair and a middle aged woman in a purple dress are giggling, trying to start a conga line. They looked like the artsy type, like my aunt. Probably work friends.
     I laugh, “Yeah, it’s cool, but cold. Where are you from?”
     “Santa Barbara. We live kinda near the mission.” Rich artsy people.
     “Nice! Yeah we actually used to live in Oakland, so we’d come down to visit my aunt who lives by the mission a lot.”
     “Oh cool. Wait, isn’t Berkeley kind of dangerous? I like heard something on the news about someone getting shot there or something. I don’t know, it was in like the black part of town though I think. The other parts seem cool though.”
     Go ahead and tell me racism doesn’t exist anymore.