A Tale of Two Manhattans: The Puerto Rican White Girl from Spanish Harlem

On 108th street and Madison Avenue, they called me “White Girl.” Even though they all knew my name, to them, “Alyssa” didn’t seem quite fitting. I talked like I was “White” according to my friends from Lehman Village, Lakeview, and Villa Hermosa Apartments, all territories of Spanish Harlem which made up my ‘hood. because I enunciated my R’s, my S’s, my T’s, always said “like” as a filler, and, I don’t know, I guess I had an accent that sounded similar to 99.9% of the young white women that I went to school with. For years, I felt like I was trapped in between two worlds, neither in which I felt I truly belonged. At the private school that I attended (the name is not relevant at this time) for thirteen years of my life, I was teased for being a “loud Puerto Rican,” especially in the 6th grade, and was regularly asked if the name-brand bags, shoes, or jewelry that I sported at school was “real.” I was even teased by local private school boys who constantly reminded me I didn’t belong in their community, sending me AOL instant messages to my computer to remind me that I was “poor” and that I didn't belong at the school. (How ironic how some of the same students that teased me were on scholarships as well, huh? Talk about self-hate.) Even when I didn’t even try to be accepted, I was regularly reminded that I would never be so. If it wasn’t within my school community, it was by some young girl who lived in my building telling me that I think I am “better than them” for going to private school, or simply because of how I talk.

I could tell you many stories about times that I felt like I truly didn’t fit in in my life. All of them would be rather mundane to me, because I feel like the stories I’ve shared have become a tremendous part of my identity, whether I choose to identify with them at this time or not. But the one story that replays over and over in my head as I’ve considered writing this part of my truth for the sole purposes of this contest is a story I will never forget: It is one that shapes the reason I strive to be my authentic self every single day in my life, no matter what that may look like or how that may sound.

I will take you back...way back....back into time, to the year 2000 - my second semester in 1st grade. Remember how I told you about that prestigious private school that I was fortunate and blessed enough to attend for thirteen years of my life? This story take place there. Let me set the scene for you:

This place is a gorgeous 19th century mansion with two buildings connected by a small 3rd story bridge. The exterior of the building, to me, is nothing special. But the inside of the school, however, looks like you’ve just stepped into a “Harry Potter scene” as some of my family members who have attended my Spring Concerts and school events used to say. It has a classic aesthetic to it with vast rooms and halls, and a breath-taking rotunda. One of my favorite rooms in the entire vicinity is where the “moment” took place: the banquet hall. Here, the girls from grades one through four would sit for lunch at these large round tables. I cannot recollect whether or not sitting heterogeneously across grades was mandatory, but on this particular school day, I sat with two girls in my class, and three fourth graders, whom I feared very much.

I can recall that none of the girls which sat at my table were of color. Immediately, I stuck out like a sore thumb, as I did within most of the Lower School on a regular basis, but that truly didn’t matter to me. At the young age of seven, I didn’t see color, class, or religion. I saw love and respect - which is what my parents raised me to have, emphasizing their importance throughout my entire life. That didn’t matter to the rest of the students I interacted with who could see everything else which I previously mentioned, however. Because, even though I was just as fair-skinned as they were (OK, maybe I was, like, a quarter-of-a-shade darker than they were), my long, thick, curly dark-brown hair which rested loosely above my waste, and my loud, boisterous personality were indicators that I was “different.” It didn’t matter how much I could outshine my classmates on tests, or in spelling bees, or even when it came to how many books I could read and write for my age. This was made clear to me when the conversation between the two grades commenced at the lunch table.

I remember my first graders and I discussing topics that first graders probably should or shouldn’t discuss (we knew too much for our age) when a fourth grader butted into the conversation. At this moment, I do not recall what she said, but I took this opportunity to poke my chest out by getting ready to say something slick to her in hopes of easily letting her down with my seven-year-old wit. I used the phrase commonly heard by my late-and-great daddy “Let me ask you something” to this 4th grader who had nothing in common with me, but instead of properly enunciating the S and the K, I seemingly mixed the two letters up, something I was never made aware of until this very moment. My “ask” sounded like “axe,” the way I commonly heard it being pronounced in my own Spanish Harlem neighborhood by my neighborhood friends. The three fourth graders, in response, looked at each other, looked at me, and laughed. One of them replied with a snicker, “You want to kill me?”

I looked at this little girl with much, much confusion for a brief moment. Still, not understanding what her corny joke was insinuating, I repeated myself a second time: “I said I want to ask you something.” Still, my S and my K were again mixed up, sounding like axe. She repeated the same question: “So, you want to kill me? You want to off me?”

We seemingly went back and forth like this, telling and asking the same damn statement and question for what seemed like an eternity. (In reality, we probably went back-and-forth about twenty times.)

I remember my first grade friend leaning over to me when she realized how the big girls who loved to make the little girls feel inferior were trying to embarrass me. She leaned over and said “It’s aSSSSSK, Alyssa. They’re teasing you.” I quickly brushed her off, because a this point, all I wanted was to act tough like my friends in the ‘hood did whenever somebody tried to mess with them. “I don’t get it, what’s so funny?! I’m trying to ask you something for real!” I exclaimed to the girls as my cheeks grew pink and my face grew hot. I felt tears gently come to my eyes, and that’s when the big, bad bullies realized they should stop. One of the fourth graders at the table interjected the back-and-forth that her friend and I were having to correct me. “It’s ASSSSK, not ‘axe.’” I stared at her with puppy-dog eyes, giving her almost a look of relief for interjecting and saving me of further humiliation. In that moment, it didn’t matter how bright I was or how much my parents’ reminded me that I deserved to be there because I was “blessed” to be getting a scholarship for an education that most of my friends had to pay for. I felt like, in that moment, I belonged with my family up on the 16th floor of my humble Lehman Village apartment, property of New York City Housing Authority.

It didn't and doesn't matter how I replied to that fourth graders who was cracking the lame joke that she did on me instead of correcting me and making it at teaching moment. What’s important to me is how I’ve reflected on the way this moment has shaped not my inability to fit in to just one community, one environment, but rather my lack of interest to do so. It was the starting point of my life that made me realize years later that, no matter how hard I could try to be one of “them” on the Upper East Side or in El Barrio, I would never be seen as an equal: always above, or always below. So, I’ve grown to fall in love with all that is “Alyssa” - whether they choose to call me “White Girl,” that “loud, annoying Puerto Rican” or anything else to make themselves feel more comfortable and protected in their own skin. Today, I choose to enunciate all my constants when I feel like it, speak my dope ass New York, swagged out slang when I feel like it, and write what ever the hell sets me free when I feel like it.

And no one, not the richest nor poorest man, not the brownest nor whitest woman in the world, not 91st and 5th Avenue nor 108th and Madison Avenue can take that away from me.