Be whiter than the white kids; that was my plan entering Freshman year of high school. But wearing Hollister and Abercrombie, and having white friends, wouldn’t change my skin from brown to white. My peers still called me “dirty Mexican,” “beaner,” or “roofer.” I feared not fitting in, so I laughed with them, suppressing the pain and confusion of who I was inside.

In 1998, at 12 years old, I learned what race was. That summer my family moved from Stephen City, Virginia, to Grain Valley, Missouri, an 89.7% white Kansas City suburb, with a Census Bureau estimated population of 14,526. This is not a story about Mexicans escaping the barrio. We were a comfortable, middle-class family. My sister and I attended Rosedale Academy in Virginia, a private Baptist school, with a white majority student body and administration. 

While at Grain Valley Middle School I learned roofers more likely were Mexicans. I also realized I was bi-racial. My dad, Roger Lopez, was born in Denver, Colorado, a third generation Mexican American, with Native American and Spanish ancestry. He was a Marine and worked for the airline industry. My mom, Rena Lopez, is from northern Pennsylvania; her maiden name is Brunner. Her family is originally from England, Germany, and Sweden. My dad would tell me “real” Mexicans referred to us as coconuts. Brown on the outside, white on the inside.  This became my answer when asked what race I was. Beat them to the joke. I did not understand that insulting my insecurities was by proxy saying racism was okay.

The breaking point came two weeks before the end of Junior year. I was addressed with the racial slur, “You are a roofer.” The main antagonist followed me through the halls calling me a roofer. I asked him to stop. He did not, so I pushed him.  He retaliated, throwing a cup of tea in my face.  Pain buried for years rushed to the surface as anger and hatred. I threw the first punch and missed.  The last thing I remember is teachers separating us and leading us to the principal’s office. My head hurt and I buried the pain. 

I never told my parents about the racial slurs I was subjected to at school until this happened.  They repeatedly attempted to speak with the school administration and school board about the school’s racist atmosphere.  Their voices were ignored. The antagonist and I received the same punishment, we were expelled for the remainder of the year.  No one mentioned the racist slur.

After years of denial, self-destruction, therapy, reflection, and the support of my loving family, accept who I am. I’m not sharing my experience now for an apology, I’m telling you this because the Black Lives Matter movement has empowered me. No longer will I stay silent, because I need you to be aware of what racism looks like, and how it can effect an individual, especially a child, for a lifetime. Black Lives Matter is a catalyst for change in America for all minorities, and I want my son to live in an America where systemic racism and inequality are not accepted as normal.

I am not a coconut. I am not a beaner. I am a son, a father, a United States Marine, a poet, an artist. I am a Mexican American. I am Nick Lopez.

 

This essay is a contest winner and was previously published by the Johnson County Library.