Dear Mrs. Ruby Bridges-Hall My name is Belinda. I’m an eighth-grader in San Antonio, Texas, and a Hispanic girl highly moved and inspired by your story. I am fascinated at your strength to continue going to a school that didn’t accept you, your refusal to let anyone make you feel small or unworthy. I don’t…
By Martina Vasquez They call me La Pola. Only now, walking towards certain death, it occurs to me that I don’t know why. I’m kind of glad today is going to be my last day. The words sound harmonious. Dates don’t always have the ring of a good verse, but today does. “She died on…
I was 14-years-old, sitting in my freshman geometry class, when I saw three boys throwing paper wads at a mentally challenged student named Angel*. I sat in my seat from across the room, staring at the boys continuing to haze Angel. I felt disgust for this act and wanted to catch each paper wad before…
By Vanessa Batz AUSTIN, Texas —The familiar cat call you hear as you’re walking down the street, minding your business. The unfairness in a Latinx household where a son is the favorite and it’s not because of his academic achievement of straight C’s. The unsaid rule where men can do what they please while women…
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