As a child, I thought I was white; everybody around me growing up was white. I was completely immersed in their culture. But after I entered what became a junior high reeducation camp downtown, my heritage was thrown in my face, and I became a target. The world I had grown up in became unfamiliar and threatening. I came from good Mexican American stock, but my heart and identity were deeply rooted in the Anglo community. Neither the Anglos nor the Mexicans saw me as one of them. I was an outsider, lost between two worlds. The Mexicans saw me as a "Pocho" (those born in the US, who are perceived to have largely adopted American culture and are not fluent in Spanish); while many Anglos saw me as nothing more than a wetback; someone who would never be an equal in their world. Yet I lived my best life, pushing back against those who refused to accept that a brown person could advance in their world. There are many good people on this earth to which I owe much, but there are just as many—if not more—evil white folks lurking in plane site, ready to put Mexicans in their place. And that place is cleaning their toilets and tending their fields.