As I drove away, an image of my grandpa Juan came to mind. His livelihood had been growing and selling produce, such as sandia (watermelon). He too had a beard of white stubble, one which contrasted with his dark skin. I have memories of visiting grandpa Juan at a flea market, his large, canvas-covered truck bed filled with ripe watermelons. Although we didn’t get to see him very often, and although his Spanglish was sometimes tricky for my siblings and I to understand, he was always happy to see us. A generous smile would unfold from his face and he’d call out, “Mijos! Mijas!” (my sons, my daughters).

For several years (too long in the rearview mirror of life) I worked for a woman who prided herself on saying whatever she was thinking without apology. We were working at our desks in our small office one day when she made a pointed observation.

“You roll your r’s sometimes. Thrrrree!!” she chirped with a laugh like a short bark. “I’m going to call you Little Hispanic Girl.”

“I am Hispanic,” I replied, uncomfortable with the expression of self-satisfied amusement she wore.