Editor’s Note: Journalism I students who have published on the Hyphen website this school year were given the opportunity to write and publish a final message to readers on a topic and with a style of their choice.

by Juliette Acuna Garcia

I’ve been told I’m “too sensitive” more times than I can count. People laugh off comments about race, act like they don’t matter, or tell me “it was just a joke.” But the truth is that those comments do stick. They stay with you. I know, because one has stayed with me since I was seven years old.

I was only in second grade when I realized that the color of my skin made people see me differently. 

It was recess. I was wearing a bright yellow shirt, my melanin skin beaming in the sun. I was ready to play whatever, with whoever. When this little blonde haired girl appeared in front of me, I was filled with excitement. As I was young, I had no shame. I asked her if she wanted to play with me.

“No…I’m scared of your skin color.”

I froze. I didn’t even know what to say. I didn’t cry or run away. I just stood there, confused and embarrassed, wondering what about me was so scary. When I walked away,  I pretended not to care. But I did. That one comment stuck to me like glue. 

I wasn’t being bullied out loud, but something in that sentence felt deep, ugly, and wrong.

I didn’t understand at the time, but now I know that was a form of micro racism — those small, everyday comments or actions that show bias without being as obvious as a racial slur. People think racism only looks like shouting or violence, but it can look like a classmate flinching when you sit too close. It can sound like “You’re pretty for a brown girl.” It can feel like being left out of certain things, being trapped in your own mind.

What happened to me that day on the playground wasn’t just one moment — it was the start of a pattern I would notice again and again growing up. That memory made me more aware, made me listen harder to what people really mean when they speak. I started realizing how normal it is for people to make those kinds of comments without thinking twice.

It’s in the jokes, when someone makes a comment about how “surprisingly well” you speak English, even though you were born here. Or when someone says, “I don’t see color,” as if pretending racism doesn’t exist is the same as stopping it.

Micro racism is so normalized that people don’t even realize they’re doing it. It hides behind jokes, “preferences,” and stereotypes. And when you call it out, you often get told you’re “overreacting.”  It’s frustrating. It’s tiring. 

That day on the playground might seem small to some people. But to me, it was the beginning of realizing that the world sometimes sees me differently, and not in a good way … just because of my skin. And I think that’s why it matters so much to talk about it. Because if we stay quiet, these moments will keep being brushed off as “just a joke.” 

I’m not angry at that girl anymore. She was young and probably repeating some things she heard at home. But I do wish someone had taught her better. Because we all deserve to feel safe, welcome, and equal. I know I will never really feel that way, but I’m not that little girl on the playground anymore. I’m stronger, and I’m louder. It made me want to speak out, because no one should feel “scary” just for existing in their skin. 

I’ve learned to be proud of my skin, my roots, and who I am. Being ashamed of what I look like will never happen again. I will always remember that little girl at recess, and how one sentence made me question who I was. That’s why I am writing this. Maybe if we start calling out these moments, we can stop them from becoming someone else’s memory, too.