It’s lunchtime and a bright, sunny day, lights up the high school patio in Oakland. 12:30 PM and the sudden ring of the bells has made way for unorganized chaos in the school’s halls. My ham, tomato, jalapeño and cheese sandwich slowly melts in my bag as I pack up. Unlike everyone else, I’m not thrilled to go to lunch due to a disorder that teenagers, such as myself, faced during high school: loneliness. Walking through the narrow halls of what seemed to me a prison, I carried myself like an outsider not only because of my culture, race and language, but because of my inability to train myself to speak like what everyone called, the natives. “Beaner, wetback and dirty Mexican” seemed then the harshest words I’d ever heard come out of another 14 year old.

A few months after failing at several attempts to make new friends, my cousin “Jessey,” like he was called at school (Jose at home), got me a pass to hang around his vicious circle of friends for a couple of weeks. I got lucky, or so I thought. Jessey took his role as a “freshman” very literal. He strived to socialize with the most popular kids in school, even if half the time he was hardly socializing. He followed around and every now and again he’d participate in a conversation. Nonetheless I was eager to be with potential friends. After unloading my backpack in my locker, a 25 pound bag that seemed punishment for something I’d done wrong, I would join Jessey and the gang at 12:35 everyday. Our gathering spot was next to the cream of the crop, near the center of the school patio. No benches, tables or umbrellas for us. A simple concrete platform neatly parked by the cafeteria exit caught everyone’s attention as we devoured our meal. It was precisely on insecurity central. I wasn’t aware of how kids in this new school had fun, but what I came to realize taught me a whole lot about “American Consumerist Society.”

“Are those Dr. Martins? Wow, they’re rad!” and “That is a narly skateboard dude. Those are like 500 bucks!” was the topic of conversation. I had some vague knowledge of Wall Street and the stock market, but I didn’t know what role teenagers played in it. I couldn’t believe that people put so much emphasis on who wore what brands and what high school toy was the hottest ticket to massive parties or gatherings. The biggest cultural shock came later when I realized that “Jose” would deny in public to speak Spanish, like it was some sort of incurable illness. “Mama” and “papa” were his first words, just like mine, even if he was born here. Ironically, his parents like mine could hardly keep up a conversation in English. I couldn’t understand what would make him so ashamed to be Mexican. God forbid his true identity be revealed to the critical masses. Nicknames and derogatory phrases would trigger no shame in me. On the contrary it clarified a gigantic Aztec warrior shield I often imagined to protect myself.

I soon realized that it would be no fun playing and competing with such a demanding crowd. Their knowledge of economic investments was far superior to mine. My closet contained secondhand shorts, pants, shirts and a pair of Converse. Many of which where worn new by them, kids who were to be my “new friends.” I could hardly brag about the clothes that had made them brightly shine once before, filling their ego with materialistic satisfaction. I lived with my parents and five other siblings in a two-bedroom apartment, which made the competition even tougher. I soon realized that I’d rather be alone than try and psychoanalyze a crowd with which I had hardly anything in common. With my economic status and my strong cultural background, I was destined to find other means of socializing.

I strived to fit in with a group of people like myself with which I could create a new identity. Once again I found myself alone, but not for long. I started chasing my older sisters and their friends around campus. Soon, I was adopted by them like a heard of dogs adopts a lost pup. I got to hang around with the older crowd, Juniors and Seniors. They all spoke Spanish and were not ashamed to do so. An interesting crowd indeed. I let my imagination fly and soon I fantasized about how they forged the Latino Immigrant Rebellious Government (LIRG). And what did they rebel against? False publicity. Lazy, dirty and uncivilized Latinos was the stigma that the media had rubberstamped in people’s brains. It was precisely the attitude and mentality everyone around had towards Latinos and Mexicans in particular. The LIRG seemed invincible. I felt empowered and secure around them. Democratic decisions such as when to cut class next and where to go were the lessons of the day. Such organization for ditching school for picnics and games at the park, or long days on Lake Merritt. Departure time was always after recess.

Like in any democratic society, resources were gathered and distributed. Teacher assistants, student administration workers and other students in office would facilitate passes as well as advise of what the best route to exit would be. An underground army of people worked together to make these unforgettable trips possible. Like tanks in a war, cars were always waiting by the football field ready to load. Chips, sandwiches and fruit filled backpacks were on standby hidden behind bushes and lockers near the exit path. As we made a run for it, a sudden rush, goose bumps and the thrill of being persecuted brought me back to the crossing of the Mexico - US border. The border-crossing specialist, Coyotes as they are known, whispered, “Shhh, be very quiet and cautious when running across the fence. I’ll let you know when you can raise from this squatting position.” as we made our way towards the exit. Sure enough 10 minutes later we were on our way to 5 hours worth of freedom. I tell you, a difficult operation but worth every minute of it. Those were the days, or so I thought.

The following school year I utilized to draw conclusions from my previous experiences in this nation that, for obvious reasons, seemed so foreign to me. Confused and eager for independence, both my sisters dropped out of high school. Like many of their friends, they got involved with boys and would hit the road at once, just like that. It was the fashion at that time to get a boyfriend or girlfriend and runaway from home. Just like the 70’s all over again. They were becoming women right in front of my eyes, and I knew nothing of it. Before I could piece all the clues, both my sisters and most of their friends were either married, dropped out or about to graduate. The army and the whole government staff were gone. I, once gain, took on the task of finding a formula for a more reliable social group.

During the early 1990’s, a tidal wave of immigration washed away any theories I had for solving my social crisis. I wasn’t to pretend to be rich and popular, or a Junior or Senior. Fortunately, I met a new crowd closer to my age and my cultural beliefs. It was a group of people that shared the same values as me, spoke the same language, came from the same part of the world and more importantly felt exactly the same way I did about living in a foreign place. Oswaldo, Gilberto, Juan Carlos, Jose, Sergio and Miguel were my new friends and lunch buddies. Each with their own version of the struggle to connect and communicate in a foreign country, we laughed at the uniqueness of our experiences. We all faced similar symptoms, discrimination, segregation, prejudice and misinterpretation. Like me, they would be the last to be chosen in a basketball team in PE class; they would be called names when found in a position of challenging power, and most importantly had a hard time connecting with the “popular” majority. We wondered how we were all of a sudden characterized as Aliens, when we moved from a neighboring country and not from Mars or Jupiter. We spoke of how we had come back to a land that was as much ours as anyone else’s.

I couldn’t believe it. There were more and more arrivals everyday. All of them, as they say “fresh off the boat,” gave me a recharge on my cultural batteries. I was updated with hip new slang words and phrases used back home, new music and more importantly a sense of culture I hadn’t experienced since my arrival. I wasn’t alone anymore. There were genuinely cool guys and girls from all over Latin America. With all these new people from diverse areas of my past, I was instantly brought back to what I always thought teenage life would be like. Brandless and priceless gatherings were there to enjoy the simple nature of personal interaction, an exchange of ideas. We shared points of view from our lives, our families, our cultures and our struggles for interaction. Our crowd grew stronger as the days went by. More and more sections of ESL classes were added on a monthly bases as the overall population diversified without control. At one point I came up with statistics that read 35% Latino and 65% others. It could have been wishful thinking, but nonetheless I rejoiced my calculations.

There were still a few rotten apples in the basket that would try to categorize and jeopardize our progress, but there was no stopping. I remember one day in PE class the instructor thought it would be entertaining to challenge our pride in order to prove his authority over us. He arranged 2 soccer teams, 1 team composed of “locals” and the other of Latino immigrants. Unfairly judging the rules of the game to benefit the locals, my team wouldn’t give up so easily. After scoring 3 goals against the opposing team, a fight broke out between two players, one from each team, because of a foul that purposefully wasn’t called by the instructor. My friend Miguel was severely hurt after two players from the opposing team tackled him as he carried the ball towards a potential 4th goal.

At that time I knew that this form of interaction and behavior was wrong, especially coming from a “professional.” I knew that the lack of personal interaction between cultures within the school system had a lot to do with people like my PE instructor. I closely related this and other incidents I experienced to the “separate but equal” time period in the history of the US.

From this point on I hoped to make a change so that no other teenager would have to go through what I, my cousin Jose, or any other minority group had gone through. Everything from the name calling to the unfair challenges we faced. There was no reason powerful enough to have people ashamed of admitting his or her identity.

Even though there was no apparent evidence of Latino segregation from school events and sports, no one seemed to participate. It was like even though we showered, we stunk; and even if we couldn’t smell ourselves, everyone else could. Or at least their body language and facial expressions portrayed just that. I personally was intimidated and overwhelmed when I found myself in a group where I was the minority, or only person with an accent. Even if I could hold my own with my broken English, there was no one to hang on to, no one that was accepting and welcoming of immigrants. The few Mexican Americans, like Jessey, that had crossed cultural boundaries had done it indefinitely, at least in school.

The OLA club (Organizacion de Latino Americanos) the only Latino club in school came to be the largest with over 250 members; therefore the most active. The last couple of years in high school were definitely involving. Weekly OLA meetings kept me up and running on my mission to generate involvement, enough to run for office. I soon became the Club Secretary and helped organize several field trips and school events. We learned to work as a team in order to be recognized and represented. Cinco de Mayo, Napoleon’s first defeat, came as a surprise to those who knew nothing about Mexico. It was a bigger celebration than the 4th of July. Football food stands and Homecoming parade floats gave way for what was to become the immigrant revolution at Oakland High School.

US Government, Senior year and its 12:25 PM. I sit on the edge of my seat eager to pack up and run out the door. Inside the cafeteria, plans for the next OLA field trip come to be, UC Berkeley via the Six Flags Marine World in Vallejo for a day. On the same agenda, an idea to organize Latino votes to elect the first ever Latino Homecoming Queen and King is discussed by all board members. As we gained popularity, non-Latino outsiders shared our vision and joined. For the first time in 5 years I felt the true experience of having a relationship with a “native.” I could finally have an intelligent conversation with a true citizen, a conversation far from brands and merchandise.