All I Lost Was a Hat, Not My Name

I have a new student from Tehran, who has a really thick accent.  In my interaction with him I have noticed that he gets really upset when any mention to his accent or race is mentioned.  I wanted to refer him to our English Specialist and he got really offended and said that even though he had a thick accent that he didn’t need any assistance- he went on this long angry discourse. When I finally got a word in, I told him that it had nothing to with his accent that in his file I just noticed that he hadn’t been reclassified because he had failed the ELPAC. As, I have gotten to him I sense this great need to shed cultural ties because he just wants to be a normal American kid.  He wants this so much that he is, rocking the Raybans, The Converse, Adidas Tees and shedding his birth name - legally changing it to Henry with a nice American last name… I wish I could tell him (in a way that he would believe) that he is perfect; even with his beautiful, unusually difficult name to pronounce.

After moving to America, it took me decades to put to rest the feeling of being different-in-a-bad-way to stop seeking Americanisms as my perceived view of perfection.  Even as a child, the students in my elementary school made me feel ugly different.  It wasn’t just that I didn’t speak the language- I also dressed differently and even with the language barrier I knew that my style of dress wasn’t approved.  You see, in Mexico parents dress their girls in dresses and tie their daughters’ hair in bows because presentation is important.  Looking presentable easily equates with you coming from a good hard-working family – and reputation is held to a high esteem.  When we moved here, my mother continued to dress me in frilly dresses and to beach loving kids this manner of dress was something one wore on special occasions.  So, I knew that I needed to tone it down.  So, slowly I chose jeans and a t-shirt over the dresses.

But…

Every year, on school picture day, my mom would spend weeks planning my photo outfit down to the last detail.  I was in fifth grade and the TV show “Blossom” was all the rage along with large hats with fake flowers.  Well, my mom (my sister might have helped) found a blush pink bucket hat and hot glued a large white Dahlia on the front.  She put me in my new handmade dress, curled my hair and plumped the hat on my head.  The look of satisfaction in her face made me keep the hat on until I was safe from her view.  Once, I knew I was a safe distance from home and far enough from school I took off the hat and shoved it my backpack.  I spent the hours until picture time tortured, concocting a plan on how to put the hat on right before the photographer snapped my picture.  Yet, when it was time for me to take my picture the hat remained in my backpack- I feared the teasing more than my mother’s wrath.  When I got home, mom wanted to know all the details.  I thought of waiting until the proofs came in before telling her that I hadn’t worn the hat, instead I told her that I wasn’t allowed to wear the hat.

 “No hats allowed in school,” I whispered.

She was so angry, I thought she might call the school and complain, “Why did they not allow you to wear it just for the picture!  After all, am I not the one paying for those pictures?!”

To this day she still believes that the school forbade me from wearing my hat on picture day.  This story had long been forgotten, until I came across a box full of vintage hats at a neighborhood yard sale.  I bought it, gave my neighbor ten bucks and I went home salivating over the ribbons, feathers, veils and flowers of my new hat lot.  As I sat at home, handling each one I thought how much I missed the good old days and then just like that I remembered my “Blossom” hat and the picture that never was because I was afraid to be colorful, Mexican me.  But, all I lost was a hat, not my name.