At time of birth we are placed in a world filled with chaos. Chaos in terms of love, hate; peace, war; life, death. The molding process begins at home, then continues in our community, and then our schools, and finally our government. The naïve minds and pure hearts of a child are contaminated by this chaos and left to be devoured by society.

A moment in my life that I vividly remember occurred was when I was seven years old and in the 2^nd grade. I lived in the northern foothills residential area of Tucson, Arizona. There was not a lot of Hispanic families that lived in the area which was mostly populated by white families, so we tended to stand out like the color fuchsia. I was attending a primarily white school, and I was the only Hispanic in my class, one out of four in my school. I didn’t notice or remember many differences until I became aware of the physical differences around me. For example, the color of my eyes, skin, hair, and the accent in my name, Lucia. Today I will share with you the ambiance, thoughts and feelings of my profound awareness of the discoveries of myself. [photo of me in second grade]

The year is 1978 and the following events flared with excitement: The Smurfs appear on TV for the first time; the first multi functional food processor is launched; world’s first test tube baby is born; ‘Superman’ starring Christopher Reeve is released; ‘Grease’ starring John Travolta is released; Space Invaders the first ever arcade video game is launched.

I woke up this morning to the aroma of chorizo con huevo and tortillas. My mother’s always up before everyone preparing our breakfast and lunches for the day. I raced to the kitchen with my morning breath and disheveled hair eager to devour my share of chorizo. My mother smiled as I greet her with open arms. "Buenos diaz Ma’ma!" I looked outside searching for the last sight of Polaris hoping to catch a glimpse before the bright Sun consumes the sky. I see it and smiled. I sat in my favorite stool that overlooked our big yellow kitchen filled with memories of family get-togethers. I caught myself starring at my mother as she prepared my plate. She’s so beautiful and vibrant. She takes so much joy and pride in making us all happy, even at five thirty in the morning. [photo of my mom as a baby]

I asked my mother why didn’t I have blond hair, colored eyes and pale skin like my classmates. Everyone in school looks so different from me. I want to fit in and look like everyone else, and no one has my name, Lucia. My mother responded in her proud and gentle voice, " Mija, God made you beautiful and unique, be proud that you have your own special look." I heard what she said, but wasn’t satisfied, because she didn’t know the pain I had been experiencing as a result of these obvious differences. I knew I couldn’t change the physical aspects, but I knew I could change my name. I told my mother that I didn’t like my name anymore and that I wanted to change it. She asked me, "Why?" There’s this pretty girl in my class that reminds me of Barbie with her blond hair and blue eyes, and her name is Jennifer. There’s no Barbie that looks like me. Why can’t my mom understand how ugly I feel with my dark hair, eyes and skin, and especially with a name like Lucia? I said, "Nobody says my name right, so I want to change my name to Jennifer." Plus I hate it when they call me Lucy for short, because it reminds me of Charlie Brown, and Lucy’s never nice. My mother nodded, and said that we’d change my name the following day, but she warned me. She said, "You change your name, you deny who you are." She will never understand. There she goes telling me to sit down on our brown velvet sofa with big yellow and red floral prints while she returns. I stare at the hideous landscape wallpaper my parents like so much. Everyone knows its fake! Oh and there’s my reflection off the squared smoked mirrors. Why can’t I look like Barbie?

Stepping out of the milieu and into the chaotic mind of this little girl, Lucia, I realize the influences set by our society. The standards are different with each boundary line, but consistent throughout. The standards are lined out for us in the media, advertisement, and in toys. In 1978, Barbie was blond with colored eyes. Where was the ethnic Barbie for the ethnic little girl?

My Grandmother experiences a similar feeling of self-hatred. Her voice says:

I was a dark skinned child with hazel eyes like your Great-grandfather. Your Great-grandfather was Spanish, and your Great-grandmother Mexican-Indian from Veracruz. I was taken custody by my father at the age of two, and raised by his sisters. I was taunted daily for the color of my skin and put into a room filled with black coal for hours. I remember sitting on the dirty floor covered with black residue crying wishing for this curse of color to be lifted off me. My aunts called me molata, monkey and ugly. I was bathed in milk, and made to soak scrubbing my skin till it was raw, all because I was darker then they. I hated being me. I hated that I couldn’t be lighter, beautiful like my aunts and my father. [photos of my great grandparents]

The confusion of identity is harsh as it is for any child, but amplified when one is colored or different. Lucia experienced this amplified harshness which brought her to the point of self-hatred. She hated her colored skin, eyes, hair, and her name. She wanted to look like Barbie and be named after Jennifer. This self-hatred turned into complete denial of who she was, welling to change every element of self to meet society standards. Sadly enough her Grandmother experienced this same self-hatred, but due to caste within her own people. The daily interaction Lucia was exposed to was within the predominate white community, which did not offer support for her kind. Her friends where white, teachers white, neighbors white, McDonalds cashier white. This leads to the next evaluation. What was the nuclear family doing to help Lucia’s crisis?

Family is the first molding experience for most children, and the milieu provided is contingent to a child’s healthy self-esteem. Parents of colored or different children may oversee the probable outcome of placing their children in communities or situations with which their children have difficulties identifying. At this point of the parents’ life, their main concern is providing a sturdy economical foundation, good schools and a safe environment. The contrary for the child is they are faced with having to rediscover themselves outside their home resulting to the reality of chaos.

I see my father’s reflection off the mirrors as he exits his bedroom. My mother stops him and says something funny, because he laughs. He approaches me, and says, "Good Morning my Nawachi." I love it when he calls me that. He bites me on my back like he has always does, and I scream because it tickles. He proceeds to our yellow kitchen for his breakfast of champions. He always says that when he likes what he’s having. [photo of my dad]

My mother returns with our huge red family album. And I realize I’m going to starve to death. She sat me down and begins to explain why I would deny myself if I changed my name. Deny myself? How? She told me about Santa Lucia, and about herself, my Grandmother (Nana), my Great Grandmother (Abuelita), who all carry this same name proudly. She opens the red family album and she begins to speak of the stories of my heritage, and the family we still had in Mexico. Mexico? Where’s that? She took out the family photos of our relatives, and told me about each and every one, and the story behind each photo. They’re so funny looking! Why are they posed so stiff and not smiling? They’re silly. Well it’s nice to see that these people look like me, and have funny names like mine. We laughed and giggled with each passage of generation. The last photo she showed me was the picture of me only hours old. Was I really that small? My mother tells me a story about how she named me. My throat feels a little tight because I’m about to cry. She said, " Mija, I was so proud to see my beautiful little girl in my arms, and at the moment your eyes met mine, I gave you your name. I wanted to name you after the strong women in our family, and give you what this name has given me - pride, honor and most of all heritage." I cried with my mother after understanding the true meaning of my name. I didn’t realize how important my name really was up until this very moment. My mother asked me if I still wanted to change my name to Jennifer. How can I do that after I’ve learned how unique I really am? How special I must be to be named after my Abuelita, Nana and especially my mother. "No!" My mother smiles and gives me a big hug. [photo of my grandmother]

My Grandmother took a different approach to protect her children:

I vowed that my children would never experience such a tragedy, so I married your Grandfather, a light skin French man, to stop the curse of color from being passed down to my children. Out of seven children, only two came out with light skin, eyes and hair - my daughter Lucia, and my son Tommy. Thank God none are as dark as I am. [photo of my grandfather]

I never meant for this to happen to you. I tried, I really did. The pain you are feeling is the pain I endure everyday. I don’t show this pain, because I must be strong for you and my children, but it exists. It exists because it’s exposed for me to see everyday. I am cursed with color. Be grateful that you are not as dark as I am, and that you have a mother that sees the beauty in you and in our heritage. My heritage is what keeps me strong and inspires the hope for a better life for you and my children in this country. I love you.

Lucia’s family was not very involved with the Hispanic community, which resulted in lack of nourishment needed to identify with her people. This is not to say that there was no connection with the Hispanic community, just not enough. The lack of connecting with other Latinos may have left Lucia in limbo with her identity. Fortunately enough, Lucia’s mother was percipient to the messages she received from the conversation with her daughter. This may have been a reminder of her own childhood insecurities. Nevertheless, Lucia’s mother did what was right by reconnecting her daughter to her roots. She pulled Lucia out of her world of chaos to a more familiar place, and helped Lucia reestablish her place in this world.

This was my first realization of self, and profound understanding of my place in this world. I cherish this moment in my life, and thank my mother for her wisdom, strength, vision and most of all, her pride.

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