The Windows

By Camille Ruiz

The Red Window

Growing up, looking out the Red Window, anger and love’s borders seamlessly blended together. I constantly cursed myself for the ugly, broken Spanish I spoke and everyone’s laughter following my attempts. Despite my resentment, it did not stop me from memorizing every lyric Selena or Vicente Fernandez had to offer through my abuela’s Spanish radio without a clue as to what I was singing. 

The greatest feeling of childhood was staying up late on Christmas Eve, filled to the brim with beef and cheese tamales the whole family slaved to make, knowing in the morning I would be greeted by my mom’s famous Chilaquiles. Then I would be slapped across the face by reality when the food I so adored would invade classmates’ nostrils, leaving their faces scrunched up with distaste. 

A scent so foreign to them, transports me to the Mexican market where pan dulce and freshly baked bolillo filled the air and the cooks brought out new trays flooded with frijoles y arroz. Once you stepped into the cleaning aisle, the atmosphere shifted and suddenly it’s Friday night, the house coated with a layer of Fabuloso. 

The jokes of this between me and fellow outsiders were endless, yet the joy felt in these conversations never lasted. No hanging out after school, no birthday parties on Sundays, and no sleepovers. I was torn away from those who made me feel most at peace by the people who caused such ailment. I never understood why and whenever it was explained to me, it was always “because I said so”, but grief always turned to anger before acceptance. 

The White Window

I saw white everywhere; it surrounded me to the point of suffocation. Although white was seen as clean and pure, the White Window only depicted me as dirty and different from all the other kids; a spot of mud in a blanket of snow. Even the quinceañera, a day looked forward to by all young Hispanic girls, tainted by the self consciousness of the intense contrast of the blinding white dress against my deep olive skin. Unfortunately, I didn’t fit the mold of a beautiful Latina girl with fair skin, twirling and being absorbed by fabric that granted confidence. The narrative I received was filled with the sorrow and guilt of my hatred toward the pigmentation that made my whole family proud. 

I looked down at my skin, face twisted in discomfort, and all I saw was flashes of the milky cream spread all over my legs from the night before. Valleys and hills riddle my legs as I inspect closely, making sure every single strand of my ancestors’ DNA is stripped from its home on my body. I stride through the halls of school; my confidence sewed into the worldly praise given to smooth legs and hairless bodies. But all I saw in those halls was a white void, created by the tissues used to blot the insults my brain attacks me with, which are found within each tear that escapes my eyes, reminding me of all that I never will be. 

Many of the tears also came from lunches consisting of WonderBread sandwiches, serving as constant reminders of how the pungent meals packed for me sharply contrasted the glorious PB&Js my fellow classmates got to enjoy. I would look down at the pillowy, white bread, thinking how nice it would be to have a normal lunch for once; a lunch that did not stink or attract attention.

 Despite this, I still had victory over my adversaries because the minute I got home from school, I would be enveloped in the mouth-watering aroma of garlic and white onion searing in olive oil as it was the foundation for any dinner. I was whisked away as its wispy whisper of comfort invaded my little ears. Further solace was found in my tia’s glistening arroz con leche freckled with cinnamon against its creamy skin. It was a reminder of a time when one was just a kid, nothing more, and the only worry in mind was making a mess, devouring the dessert held so dearly to the heart.

The Green Window

Green can be found in the eyes of the kids I grew up with, tainting their view of me into an alien, as if I was Yoda, invading their little planet. My favorite movie series, Star Wars, introduced to me by my father who loved them so dearly when he was a kid, was now used as the weapon that cut me down. If not Yoda, I was Chewbacca, covered from head to toe in thin snakes that sunk their teeth into my skin, spreading their green venom throughout my body until that was all there was.  

Soon, I would sit beside those kids, peering through the Green Window as the distasteful color invaded my own eyes. Jealousy coursed through my veins as green continued to shine a spotlight on me as everyone within a thousand mile radius could see my flag did not carry the same blue as theirs did, but rather a repulsive green lacking stars. Envy clouded my mind; my longing to be just like everybody else muffled my senses. But then the sun would come out and dispel the clouds, directing its light onto the nasty green and making it beautiful. 

It vibrates the life my family expresses every time we are together, even if we’re the loudest in the restaurant and can not seem to control our laughter over reminiscing about a crazy adventure we had on that one family vacation. It overwhelms every birthday party, in which me and an army of cousins beat the living daylights out of a pony piñata covered in emerald paper that bursted with morsels of sweetness. Lime green filled my parents’ cups, the smell of margaritas wafting back to me as I asked if I could sleepover my cousin’s house. As they deliberated their decision, me and my cousin sat in front of the television, hypnotized by the green street sign with puppets surrounding it illuminating the screen. 

Green never ceased to bounce around the television screen in view of the fact that we did not have cable, which was replaced with a green brother and sister and a rat telling us this is “where a kid can be a kid.” But being a kid was more than just being sucked into the fantastical world created by cartoons of talking animals or a sponge living in a pineapple under the sea. 

Being a kid meant weekends spent on poorly kept soccer fields in which you could taste the toxic waste color radiating from the overgrown grass. With my hair like a rat’s nest, I would run over to the taco man right next to the park after my game to silence the grumbles of my stomach. The grilled carne asada filled the air, and the salsa made my eyes involuntarily cry. My childhood came to a close in the application of the red salsa, white onions, and soapy green herbs to my tacos, my colors no longer despised, but embraced.

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Camille Ruiz is a Mexican-American writer who grew up in SoCal where the sun never stops shining and rain never comes. Her passion is writing and hopes that through her writing, she can provide a voice for her fellow Hispanic sisters that often go underrepresented.