Please join us in congratulating Chiara Muñoz-Breto, eighth grade student at New Cumberland Middle School, on receiving a NATIONAL Silver Medal Scholastic Writing Award for her personal essay & memoir titled La Niña de los fotos. Out of more than 260,000 entries from all over the United States, Chiara placed in the top 1% to receive this award.  

 

Chiara we are #WestShoreProud of you and want to thank Mr. Mark Heisey, your Language Arts Teacher, for encouraging you to share your talent with our school community. 

 

In my first home, that apartment in the cacophonous city, this framed image, centered on my bedroom wall instantly shoots through my mind. Vibrant little girl, with the world in the palm of her hand. Glimmering eyes, filled to the brim with pure hope. A large grin smeared across her perky face, along with whatever that red substance was. Her pearly teeth were revealed by the parting of her lips, with little creases forming at the corners of her charming smile. Her signature tanned skin illuminated by the light of her father’s polaroid camera. Feathery jungles of hair, tamed into two little beaded, neon hair ties. Travel your eyes a smidge further down, and you’ll see two tiny, pink pearls resting on the center of her earlobe, and her small frame donning a floral, Old Navy zip up. 

I was a lively, and witty child. A little girl who cracked smiles left and right, unaware about the suffering of her people. Venezuelan citizens weeping, their misery filled tears dropping to contribute to the rapidly cascading Angel Falls. Just a bright eyed, giggly little girl, rocking plastic, Dollar-Store princess slippers. 

In all of my childhood photos, I was your average looking Hispanic niña. However, my dad didn’t talk to me in Spanish at all as a young girl. Not speaking my native language properly, I didn’t feel nearly as in touch with my culture as I wish I did.  I would see little girls at the bodega with their families, and wonder why we didn't sound like them. Several inaudible voices melting together, the words effortlessly gliding off their tongues like a flock of birds soaring through a blue sky. My words however, come out cracked, the familiar words muddled in my head, my throat tightening, and my palms sweaty with shame.

I occasionally converse back and forth with my father in Spanish now, but I only speak a sliver of what I wish I could. Tormented by the disadvantage of not speaking Spanish, I never felt fully accepted by the Latine community. I'm not fully welcomed in the white community either, but the following basically summed that up.

One time, in Mr. T’s sixth grade science class, a boy with gel-caked blonde hair looked at me with beady, emotionless blue eyes. He inquired me ever so casually, as if the question he was preparing to ask me had to do with upcoming homework.

“How did you cross the border?”  He asked me nonchalantly, a simper crawling upon his pale lips.

Time and time again, I saw my pigment as a boundary. A shackle around my ankle that constantly reminded me that I will never be seen as an equal. A little girl wondering why she didn’t look like the princesses dancing on the television.  A teenager wondering why she doesn't look like the models in the magazine.

Looking in the mirror now, I can see the shadow of the girl. We both hold the same small, almond shaped eyes. We have the same nose, small, with a smooth bump on the bridge, and the same caramel skin. On the contrary, many things have been altered. However, no matter how many similarities or differences we have, somedays, I fear that inside me, she is gone. The little girl that thrived with so much hope. Killed by the failure of conformity.

To the ghost of her, the little girl who I see while making my way through my house, strung up in intricate picture frames, sporting wild hair adorned with the beaded neon hair-ties, and goofy smiles plastered on her light up face, we did it. 

I fear you are lost, however, I found where we belong, just like you always wanted. Through my youth, I was suffocated by my desire to be heard, accepted, and loved. My corazón filled with guilt growing up, seeing mi gente starve, while my father made me pabellón criollo. My heart filled with embarrassment when comparing my friends’ lush houses to mi pequeña casa. Desperate to belong, I altered and morphed myself until I almost lost who I was. Lost the little girl. Piece by piece, I painstakingly recovered our identidad. By losing the little girl, I found myself, and I swear to embrace it, no matter how many obstacles I face.

Para mi gente.