Mornings start with the obnoxious sound of “La Cucaracha” blasting through a foghorn. This is Hialeah, a small Hispanic neighborhood that I have had the pleasure of calling home for the past 18 years of my life. It is a humble place, filled with the fresh smells of croquetas and pastelitos. It sounds like vibrant music and the rhythmic screams of a Cuban mother scolding her child; a symbol of daily living.  

The man and his food truck would arrive every morning. His shabby white van would sweep past, serenading the street with Mozart or “Happy Birthday.” His passing usually forced me out of bed. It was because of this that I would secretly call him the neighborhood rooster (though we had plenty of real roosters to go around). My mother would push my sluggish body to the bathroom, where I did my best to clean up. Afterwards, I'd head to the kitchen to eat egg-drop rice congee with a side of pickled mustard tuber and cold sponge cake. It was not a typical Hispanic breakfast. In fact, it wasn't a Hispanic breakfast at all. 

"Did Baba go to work already?" I asked. 

My mother gripped the broom in her hand as a dollop of wet rice splattered on the tiled floor. She tensed as I picked up a crumbly slice of sponge cake. 

"Ay-ah! Always messy!" she scolded, rushing to the backyard to get the mop.  

She didn't answer my question, which irritated me. I slid out of my chair to check the driveway. Empty. Dad was obviously at work. 

My mother returned with a damp mop. As I walked back to the kitchen, I realized I had left a trail of sponge cake crumbs in my hurry to get to the front of the house.  

"Uh oh," I said in English.           

 I speak English like Spanish, but I don’t speak Spanish. You see, most Americans speak with a precision that mirrors the constant. Drop. Of. Water. Droplets. Every harsh consonant brushes against your ear so clearly. But the people of Hialeah speak in an almost constant stream. Our English is different. Almost everyone here is of Hispanic descent and so it’s obvious why our dialect borrows inflection from the Caribbean and South America.  

 But when I speak, it’s like a 1960's vintage record player blasting Aerosmith in Grandma’s living room. It sounds bizarre. And my small frame and slanted eyes subject me to questioning. “Where are you really from?” It’s a question that strips me of my Miami origins and labels me as “oriental.” And even though I talk like them, I’m not like them. My Chinese features make me a minority in a minority community. 

 I always knew I had tiny eyes, but to me, they were not too different from those of my peers. To my peers, they were exotic. I grew up as a petite Asian girl among a sea of curvy and fleshy Hispanics. I became accustomed to the tones of a different language. My unique identity was engraved on my face. When I first became aware of how different I was from the other children, I struggled. 

When I was still young, my mother decided to go back to work. I figured that she was just going to be at home doing the laundry, so I was confused when she told me that this job would be outside of the house. I begged her to take me with her, but she refused. She told me that the textiles factory did not allow children.  

Instead, she sent me to a daycare. It was the worst. I suffered for eight hours at a time until she came to save me from the other kids. I was angry with my mother. I was hurt. I hid from her in the most secret places. But no matter how many times I curled up under the bed, she knew where to find me. Mothers really do know everything. 

Except she did not know about my experience with race. My first day at that cursed "Snow White Daycare" was like my first step into adolescence. It was this daycare that took away the innocence that had once protected me. 

Her name is unimportant. In fact, I couldn't remember it now even if I tried. Still, I can sharply recall her auburn hair and freckles, and her bright blue eyes. She was a little taller than me. She smelled of strawberries that were too sweet. She was like a knock-off of Strawberry Shortcake. Then, she opened her mouth. 

"Do you speak English?" she asked. 

I wasn't taken aback. In fact, most kids at the daycare didn't. Descendants from Cuban immigrants, the majority of these toddlers only spoke the Spanish they practiced in their households.  

I puffed out my little chest and showcased my fluency in English with a clear, "No."   

I couldn't tell if she scoffed or not but her crystal clear eyes quickly pierced my gaze.  

"So...are you Japanese or Chinese?" 

"Chinese," I said proudly. 

Immediately I felt exposed. How did she know where I was from? I was convinced that this little girl could read minds like those witches in the fairytales.  

But before I could question her clairvoyance, she turned to face her friend and said something I didn't understand. I started to realize they were speaking Spanish. They were speaking in Spanish about me. 

Her friend was caramel brown with plump lips that seemed angry whenever she spoke. She had jet-black hair that reminded me of my own. It was pulled up into a tight ponytail. 

I suddenly felt uncomfortable and alone. I nervously ran my stubby fingers through my short hair and pulled at my patterned shorts. I looked around and realized that all the other girls at the daycare had hair that fell below their shoulder blades and cute skirts that fluttered when they twirled. I also noticed that the teacher didn't even speak English. Only Spanish.  

Before I knew it, my longing for my mother exploded into a stream of tears and snot. I wanted to go home.