I am American. At least, that’s my nationality. The stigma surrounding the word “American” makes me struggle to identify myself with it. When I am asked this question similar to “Where are you from?” or “What are you?” I always say I’m from the U.S.

I used to live on International Boulevard in Oakland, on the more impoverished side of town. The sounds of guns waking us up at 3 in the morning was like an alarm clock for an early riser, sending panic through my mother whilst my dad slept, unaware of my brother and I hiding under the

For most of the years of my youth, I lived with my grandma on my dad’s side of the family, and I thought differently about each side of the family.

Born and raised in the Bay Area, this environment is all I really know. I’ve never experienced somewhere outside of California consciously; I was only a child when I went to visit Honduras to see family.