I must have been in the 6th grade, maybe 11 years old. We were on the school bus. I remember Said, the new kid. I remember the beautiful dark brown shade of his skin. Although I didn’t think it was beautiful then. I hated his skin color. It was brown like mine. I hated our skin color. If you grew up brown, in a place like St. Bernard Parish, Louisiana, you would understand.

I don’t remember much of Said, except that he was the new kid. But that day, he stood out. Unfortunately for him yet fortunately for me, the white kids had someone else to pick on.

Said is Indian. That I knew. To the white kids, we were all niggers. That’s what they called us all- niggers. Looking back, I laugh at their simple-minded racism. But then again, they’re not America’s smartest bigots.

Back to the school bus.

Poor Said was being bullied. Naturally I did nothing. I was just happy they were not picking on me. They were calling him nigger, asking him where he was from. Said did not respond. You never respond. We were always outnumbered and scared.

Eventually Said got off at his stop.

Then the most unfortunate thing happened. As we were pulling up to my stop, much to my surprise my father was outside cutting the grass. He was never home at that hour. He never cut the grass. That was me and my sister Julissa’s job.

My dad, although not biological but the only father I know, is Afro-Latino. He was even rocking a small afro then. My dad is a very handsome man. But to the white kids all they saw is- yep, a real Nigger.

I was so mad at my dad. Why, why, why was he outside in all his blackness? How could he possibly be outside while I’m getting ready to get off the school bus?

But there he was. My very handsome Afro-Latino father rocking his afro, cutting his grass in St. Bernard Parish, Louisiana. How unfortunate for Yaira.

This was the first time many of the school kids saw my father. They had no idea he was a black man. Boy was this a treat for them. All I remember are the chants as I walked that long mile down the school bus aisle- your dad is a nigger, your dad is a nigger, your dad is a nigger. I mean those little fuckers were chorus-like.

I got off the bus. My dad smiled at me. I don’t remember if he asked how my day was. Our parents never asked such questions. This was just another day of a brown kid growing up in St. Bernard Parish, Louisiana.