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Personal Essay: White Flag

We did not deserve this. Someone is always after us. Checking on us. Looking at us. And what had we done wrong? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

Michelle and I– we are known for being the most goody-two-shoes girls in the whole school. Since 6th grade we’ve been joined at the hip and overtime mi casa became su casa, literally. 

I remember the day that we were searched by security. We picked up our bags and made our way to the door, talking about boys and how good her butt will look in these new leggings she just bought herself. I expected to walk straight out the doors of our local Walmart. I was mistaken. A wall, in the shape of a bald man who seemed to like his job a little too much, was standing in our way. He was a part of the “Loss Prevention Department”. He asked for our receipts and we cooperated. As he ripped apart our bags and let our things fall to the floor, I grit my teeth and held my tongue while he tediously examined every item and compared it to our receipt. We had paid; we had the right to leave. 

I remember the day we were not allowed to open our door. Michelle’s mom, Xochitl, told us if someone comes to the door, we could not answer it. If someone passed the white picket fence, we had to stay quiet. It wasn’t safe. They were after her brother, Miguel, and we had to protect him. We were in 7th grade.

I remember when we were confronted by a policeman. We were on the corner of 6th and Bullard street in downtown Silver City, my home town. The brick-lined alley walls, between the herbal healing store and the accountant’s office, made a perfect background, so we decided to do a little photoshoot here. I brought my Nikon D5100 and Michelle posed for me. We were giggling as if we had no cares in the world. As if we could be one of those girls in the magazines. As if… He stopped dead in his tracks, in the middle of the road. His step carried the weight of authority as he marched across the crosswalk. He had a bulky build, the kind that belongs to a man who likes his donuts. He began interrogating us, her smile turned sour, and she stood in her tracks, brave and proud. By her stance, you could tell that she was raised by a mamá that used the chancla. I stepped in between them to break the tension. He was not interested in to talking to me. He pressed us. Why were we there? What were we doing? I would answer. He would stare at her. Repeat. 

I remember the day we were “free to go”. We were at the checkpoint on Interstate ten between Las Cruces and Silver City. I was traveling with Michelle’s family and we joked about how the border patrol may think that her family kidnapped me. It was a short-lived laugh. When we approached, we held our breath and waited in an anxious silence. The officer began to open his mouth and ask for papers, but he closed it as soon as he saw me. He waved us through. They called me their token. 

I began to see the pattern. I began to fully understand that because of my color, I am never accused, my presence is never questioned, and I am always protected. I look as white as our receipts that prove we paid. I look as white as the papers they need to prove that they can stay. And I look as white as the picket fence that has kept us safe. And I hate it. I wish I could change it. I wish to look as white as the white flag because it’s time for this to end.