My last photograph living in Mexico represents who I am today. I was 5 years old with golden brown skin, dark curly hair that tangled easily and a smile that shined brighter than the sun. I was wearing a striped orange and white polo shirt and jeans, being held by my dad who was next to my mother and brother. I had no idea what was ahead of me, but I was beyond excited to come to America, not knowing the challenges that I would face growing up. My skin had been kissed by the sun from playing for hours outdoors. I was proud of my golden brown skin because it reminded me of where I came from. Growing up I remember people laughed and I remember looking at Disney princesses and wondering why none of them looked like me. I remember reading books at school and still none of them looked like me. It made me feel out of place. My curls were exotic in a place where almost everyone was used to having it straight because it was “clean” and not all over the place. My friends would touch and play with my hair during recess and others told me I would look better with my hair straightened like everyone else. My mom would exclaim everyday after school why my hair was so messy, did she not do my hair this morning for me to come home with my hair all over the place? She explained to me to not let anyone touch my hair because it would frizz up. My curls are one of the biggest parts of my identity that didn’t change. No matter how old I got or what I was told, I never wished for my curls to go away. They made me look like me. I didn't know any English, but that didn't stop me from trying to make friends or get an education. I tried to talk to everyone I could. Luckily where I live, there are a lot of Spanish speakers. But I spoke gibberish trying to communicate with other classmates. My kindergarten teacher spoke Spanish. But she spoke to me only in English, which helped me learn. But I still struggled even after learning English. I felt like I didn't belong, I was in a foreign place learning a foreign language. It was uncomfortable and hard at five years old and still at 17. There were times I zoned out in class trying to understand the gibberish. There were words I didn't understand because I grew up speaking Spanish, and my brain saw it differently. I remember asking my teacher in 3rd grade what "Ginormous" meant when she was reading to us, and the whole class laughed and looked at me like I was dumb. Was I dumb? No, although my golden brown skin faded into a light tan and I’ve lost my accent, that 5-year-old girl who came with her parents to America in search of the American Dream lives in me. I’m learning to protect my curls. I ask questions when I am confused or unsure. I pay attention to every detail, ensuring I understand and don't fall behind. I challenge myself by taking AP classes because I am determined to get the best education possible, not letting anything get in the way. It's not embarrassing anymore when I stutter or my English breaks. It's a reminder of where I came from and who I am. Being Mexican and bilingual will always be a big part of my identity.