Jackson Mateo Exams: A Short Story
Jackson Mateo Eaves. That is my name, a symbolization of the two worlds that I have been split down the middle of through my entire life. A name of Polish roots, dating back to the invasion of Poland by Germany, and a name of Mexican roots, dating back to the Aztec times. Growing up as a biracial kid was, to say the least, a bit tough. I remember walking around with my grandmother, and my cousins, and always getting an awkward eye. Why? Well, because I looked absolutly nothing like any of them. I was a tall, blue eyed white kid, to their short, tanned skin and brown eyes. I was different. However, it had never occurred to me how different I was until I experienced discrimination for the first time. I was in my 7th grade Spanish class, the day slowly passing by, when I found a camera inside one of the desks. I was about to go and give it to my teacher, when a fellow classmate, who also happened to be Mexican asked what I was doing. I told him my intentions to give it to the teacher and he laughed right in my face. He proceeded to tell me that if I was a “REAL MEXICAN” I would go down to the pawn shop and sell it. I
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On my father’s side, I was also different. I listened to Spanish music and wasn’t a die hard rock and roll fan. I preferred foods with more spices as opposed to plain salted soup and salad. I spoke about my experiences with the mexican side of my family and got an awkward eye. My uncle, who I have known forever, who has come to birthdays and christmas with my family is a flaming racist towards Mexicans. He uses hate language, and accuses them of crimes, knowing all the while that his nephews are half Mexican. My own grandmother wouldn’t talk to me for 8 years because I was a biracial baby, because she thought I was “Dirty”. I was different, I was accepted as a cousin, a nephew, eventually even a grandson, but I never wanted to choose this side over my other. I couldn’t choose one side of myself over the
On my father’s side, I was also different. I listened to Spanish music and wasn’t a die hard rock and roll fan. I preferred foods with more spices as opposed to plain salted soup and salad. I spoke about my experiences with the mexican side of my family and got an awkward eye. My uncle, who I have known forever, who has come to birthdays and christmas with my family is a flaming racist towards Mexicans. He uses hate language, and accuses them of crimes, knowing all the while that his nephews are half Mexican. My own grandmother wouldn’t talk to me for 8 years because I was a biracial baby, because she thought I was “Dirty”. I was different, I was accepted as a cousin, a nephew, eventually even a grandson, but I never wanted to choose this side over my other. I couldn’t choose one side of myself over the