I’m taking you to my 1994 sophomore year at Beach High. That’s what we called Miami Beach Senior High School. We had recently moved to Miami from St. Bernard Parish. The sudden move was a shock. When we left Louisiana, my mom told me and my sister Julissa that we were going to visit our Tias. We ended up staying, bouncing around Miami.

In Louisiana, I often felt out of place, largely because of my skin color, and perhaps also because of my own awkwardness. Now in Miami, I was out of place because of my cajun southern accent, my clothes, overall because of my “whiteness”. I was too latina for the gringos and too white for the latinos. 

However, I instantly fell in love with Miami and adjusted quickly. It was refreshing to be surrounded by people who looked like me. Miami’s beaches and vibrant city, deeply immersed in Latino culture, offered a refreshing and exciting change. It was dreamy. 

Eventually we were enrolled in school. We still moved around but it was one consistency. The most notable of that school year was English class taught by Ms. Malkovich. 

Ms. Malkovich and I clicked right away. She quickly realized I had severely low self esteem and a great love for books. She recommended authors and encouraged me to write. Ms. Malkovich was the first person who actually saw me. She was my absolute favorite among all my teachers.

On one of the last days of school, and without prior notice, my mom checked us out early. I was not in my scheduled class. I was in Ms. Malkovich’s class. My sister Julissa was skipping school with her boyfriend. They were at the beach with a group of friends.

I don’t remember how it all went down. Julissa got back to school in time but it took the office a while to locate me. Unaware of any of this, when I was informed about the early checkout, I left Ms. Malkovich’s class and walked toward my mother, who was already waiting outside. As soon as I was within reach, she grabbed me by the hair and started punching me in the face. I asked her why she was hitting me. “Because you were skipping school.” she said. By now, I had endured so many beatings that I became numb to them. There was no use in telling her that I did not skip class. That would only anger her further and I desperately wanted her to stop. I could see the first-lunch kids outside, watching the beat down. As if that wasn’t enough, my mom wanted to further humiliate me. 

Because Beach High had a large student body, there were two lunch breaks. At this time, the second-lunch kids were in class. My mom walked me into every one of my classes and made me return my books. When the teachers asked what was going on, my mom responded “Yaira is going back to Honduras. She doesn’t deserve to be in this country. She is not a good girl.” I don’t remember how the teachers responded or how the rest of the class reacted. I did what I always did, I tuned everything out. 

Although it was not the first time my mom did this, it was the first time she did it in Miami. We had just moved and I dreamed of something- different. 

The next day I went back to school with a bruised face and a spirit further wounded.