Detroit-born Rashida Tlaib, the first Palestinian-American Muslim woman in Congress, struck a unifying tone: “That young girl that maybe looks like me and may have heard the President say this — I just want her to know that she belongs.”
I grew up in San Antonio, Texas, where the population is predominantly Mexican-American, like me. But I went to a public school where it was mostly white, and I often felt like I didn’t belong. In sixth grade I was hosting a slumber party, and one of my friends told me I was “a good Mexican. The good kind.”
Courtesy of Elaine Aradillas
I remember feeling embarrassed but I didn’t know why.
Today, as a crime reporter at PEOPLE magazine, I often post my work on Twitter. Not long ago I got a reply to one of my stories. Excited, I opened it: It said I should go back where I came from. Those words, which I’ve heard so often, are always a shock. My first thought is — back home to Texas? But that’s not what they mean. It’s not ever what they mean. Someone who doesn’t know me wants to hurt me. Words hurt. They’re meant to.
I am a proud first-generation Mexican-American. I have done everything to be successful in this country, my country. I earned multiple degrees and have a career I love. Yet every day, I see images of children in cages. I hear chants about building a wall and speaking English. All of this is directed at people who look like me. We have the same color skin, the same type of hair. I recognize their accents and the foods they eat. The only difference is I was born here.
From the day Donald Trump descended that escalator four years ago, his words have emboldened many in my country to tell me I’m not welcome. I walk through the streets, I travel for my job, I enter restaurants and stores, and I always wonder:
Who thinks I shouldn’t be here?
source: people.com
