Growing up, I was always darker than the rest of my family and friends. I never really saw an issue with it until middle school. I never had a doubt in my mind that I was Mexicana, a proud product of “la raza,” which translates to the race. Sure, I’m a third-generation Mexican whose Spanish isn’t perfect, but I thought it was obvious I’m Latina. In my early teenage years, I was surrounded by more kids at a bigger school, and my nationality was questioned all the time. Suddenly, I dreaded the questions “Where are you from?” and “You’re Mexican?” – often followed by, “I thought you were Indian.” I used to feel so embarrassed and ashamed. For years, I looked in the mirror, picking apart my features and wishing I looked more Mexican. I was never able to claim one specific part of Mexico because my grandparents came from different parts, so I’ve never felt like I belonged to one particular place. High school wasn’t any better, and I still get comments about my looks to this day. The surprising look on people’s faces when I respond in Spanish and can understand what they’re saying is something I’ll always live with. It wasn’t until recently that the comments didn’t make me fume. It took me a long time, but now I know that brown is beautiful and it comes in all forms. I may not be a first-generation student or been to the motherland, but that doesn’t make me less Mexican.