Then, it hit me. “Ally,” I stated as my turn came. I felt proud claiming the identifier “ally,” and I felt like I deserved to claim it. At least, to my Black and Mexican-American friends and to my gay sister, I was an ally, right?
I remember aching to be white for the first time in sixth grade. I walked through the hallway, clutching my English teacher’s hall pass on the way to the bathroom, when I noticed the long, straight brown hair of the girl walking in front of me.