Gives Teaching A Bad Name

(It is my first ever day of school. My name is a common Spanish name.)

Teacher: “[My name]?”

Me: “Here!”

Teacher: “Oh, no sweetie! I asked for [My Name].”

Me: “But that is my name!”

Teacher: “No, dear, that’s a [racial slur for Mexicans] name, and you’re not a [racial slur].”

Me: “But that’s my name!”

Teacher: “No, it’s not. Now, what’s your name?”

(I keep trying, but the teacher refuses to believe me. Parents’ night is that Wednesday, and my parents attend.)

Mom: “Hello. We’re [My Name]’s parents. I understand you don’t think that’s her name?”

Teacher: “Well, she’s not a [slur]!”

Mom: “Have you met my husband?”

(My Polish mother gestures to her husband, my father, a six-foot, dark-haired, brown-skinned, Mexican. His family crossed over the Rio Grande shortly after the Civil War to work the railroads, settled in Texas, and have been there for at least four generations. All five of his children take after their mother. The teacher at this point is looking pale.)

Teacher: “I… uh…”

Dad: “My daughter’s name is [My Name] and she is not a [racial slur]! None of my children are! And if I ever hear you call her or any of them that again, you will deal with me!”

(Sadly, as the only child with a Spanish name, I had to put up with this same routine, as well as other prejudices from the rest of the village, until seventh grade, when the family relocated to Florida.)