This one's personal, but a timely follow-up to last week's essay: Advertising is The New Cultural Battlefield.
In fifth grade, my family moved to a mostly white suburban city. My first day at my new elementary school started with the usual introductions. The teacher paused at my last name, peered over his glasses at me, then asked, “Where are you from?”
"Mexico," I said.
"So you're not a U.S. Citizen?"
"No."
After roll call, he announced it was time to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance. As all the students rose, the scrape of chairs on the linoleum echoing throughout the room, he turned to me and said, "No. Not you. You'll have to sit."
"You're not an American citizen."
So I sat, while my class stood, pledging their allegiance while darting glances my way. I felt isolated, excluded, and ashamed. Not just that day, but every day that school year, I couldn’t pledge allegiance.
Looking back, I realize how insensitive that was, to be excluded like that. On my very first day, he separated me from the class. He marked me as different before anyone had a chance to know me.
Despite having my green card and being in the country legally, he made me feel like someone who didn’t belong. Or at least that's how I processed it at 11 years old, because I didn't have the language to name what I felt. I just knew it felt like I was "less than"
I came to the U.S. at the age of five. My mom was pregnant with my sister. My grandfather, a cook with a work visa, was already employed here in an orange field. I think my parents migrated because they believed in the possibility of something better.
They made that happen.
By the time I turned ten, my dad had gone from a busboy to owning two successful businesses. They'd saved enough to move us out of a rough part of Los Angeles into a peaceful suburban neighborhood, buying their first home with hard-earned money.
Suburbia was a different planet. I went from chalk outlines of murder victims in the park and gang violence to cul-de-sacs, green lawns, and silence. I remember thinking in awe, "No police helicopters are flying here every night."
What I didn't know at the time was that my cultural identity was about to be reshaped.
That classroom moment, when I was excluded from the pledge, was just the beginning. I was one of the few brown kids in my new school. Over time, I internalized the message that if I wanted to belong, I had to change.
I became embarrassed of being Mexican. Or a "beaner," as I was sometimes called. No one told me to be ashamed. No one had to. I just learned.
I stopped saying my name in Spanish. Luis (loo-hees) became Lewis. I grew to hate my last name and considered dropping it altogether. I anglicized it instead, so it was easier to say in English.
When I got older, I became a naturalized U.S. citizen. I took the oath, held the flag, and was given a certificate showing I was officially an American. If that moment meant belonging, it still didn’t feel like it.
Looking back, I realize how deeply that cut. To reshape yourself for acceptance is to lose part of yourself. There was no single epiphany that snapped me out of it. Just this slow-growing awareness that whatever shame I had wasn't mine to carry anymore.
I come from a lineage of University graduates, educators, professionals, scientists, and doctors. Spanish and Mayan ancestry are my in my blood. I have a culture that's rich with meaning, history, and pride.
I almost gave it all up just to fit in.
Today, I'm proud of my heritage.
I share this not just for my closure, but because I keep seeing a question pop up online, especially in comments, responding to the backlash over the American Eagle ad featuring Sidney Sweeney:
"If white is terrible, why do you (people of color) dye your hair blonde and try to look white?" In essence, why are you trying to be like us if you’re so proud of who you are?
Aside from the flawed premise of that question, the answer is simple: self-preservation. It’s not about wanting to be white. It’s about wanting to be accepted. About avoiding humiliation. It’s about staying socially, emotionally, and psychologically safe.
It’s about belonging.
When you're one of the only brown immigrant kids in a white space, and you're either treated as an outsider, or you make yourself feel like one, or both, there's an unspoken gatekeeping that says, "You can be here... but not as you are."
We often hear things like:
“If you love your country so much, why did you leave it?”
“If you want to live here, then speak like us and act like us.”
To every immigrant, legal or not, that means either conform or stay out.
Many of us love this country. That's why we're here. Families, like mine, came here and worked tirelessly for the promise of the American Dream. However, America has a habit of claiming it's a melting pot while punishing those who don't melt quickly enough.
11-year-old me used to think being American meant standing for the pledge, wearing the right clothes, anglicizing my name, speaking without an accent, and blending in.
Now I know better.
Being an American immigrant is knowing who you are, recognizing your heritage, and belonging, while not always being accepted. It’s carrying the weight of your parents’ sacrifices and the pressure to make them worth it. It’s showing up as an American when the country doesn’t always show up for you.
Being American, as in immigrant, is not about blending in. It’s about claiming space and choosing to belong, while holding on to your identity and your heritage, even when you’re told to let it go.
Author’s note: Yes, I still pronounce my name Lewis. I carried it for so long growing up, it just stuck. It never felt worth the effort to change it back. But no, I no longer hate my last name, and I pronounce it now with all the rolled R’s it deserves.
I hate paywalls. They kill curiosity and reward clickbait. That’s why the core content here will always be free.
But this takes time, thought, and energy. If it helps you see the world differently, consider supporting it by buying me a coffee or becoming a paid subscriber for exclusive content, audio versions of each essay (coming soon), and deeper dives.
Thanks for being here. Stay Curious. Question Everything.
–Luis
Luis, so glad we became friends that year. I will never forgetting sprinting across the field to go to my house for lunch, back when kids could do that kind of stuff. As an immigrant a few generations removed it's an awkward place to be as well, I really struggle with America's darker history, but my ancestors opted to give up their language and traditions, to become American (not get abused) so I often feel devoid of culture. I'm not sure I could even tell you what American culture is without derogatory terms. But I am so far removed from my original heritages that they would almost feel like cultural appropriation if I were to try to relearn and or embrace them again. One of my cousins went back to Ireland, back in the early 80s and was rather taken aback to be bluntly told he wasn't Irish, when he had grown up thinking of himself as such. At that time Ireland (Eire) was struggling with extreme violence and their economy. He was there to work, so they probably perceived him as a threat, taking a job... Oh the twisted web we humans weave... Anyway, you and I shared so many experiences growing up, I for one am glad you are here, and the pledge let's just say it's way overrated.
So glad to have your insights Luis, getting back to the app and reading your work is just great