My name is not important. My identity is one of many. We share a few things in common. I walk across the same halls as many of you. I take some of the same classes. I laugh at some of the same jokes. I cringe at faculty members trying to relate to younger students. I love coffee. I don’t like sweets (most of the time). I enjoy working out. I enjoy going out with my partner. I enjoy cozying up in front of the TV with a blanket, rewatching the same show for the umpteenth time. We are alike, you and me. We are the same but different. Different but the same.

I was taught to be grateful for living in the best country in the world—where education is available to everyone. I see the flag waving from many front porches as I run by. The same flag follows me as I drive to get my morning coffee before work, posted on even more porches, cars, and motorcycles. The flag is everywhere. It taunts me. I am from here. I was born here. But I learned fairly quickly that I am not accepted here.

How? There have been multiple experiences, but I want to share one particular moment that I will never forget.

We are alike, you and me. You see, I like warm weather and sandals. I like a nice cold frozen coffee from Starbucks, too. I like sipping it while the cool wind hits my face. In my mind, on this random Saturday, I wasn’t just a student walking through campus. I was a model, and the campus was my catwalk. I laughed at my inside joke—a joke between me, myself, and I.

But then I heard it.

“Go back to your country.”

I turned. My smile was gone. Confusion took over my face. Surely that wasn’t meant for me. I was born in the United States. What does that even mean?

Nope. There it was again.

“Go back to your country.”

I turned to see two tall men, looking directly at me. There was no mistaking who they were speaking to. My heart felt like it skipped a beat. I couldn’t breathe, but I did walk faster. We were the only three on this path. The faster I walked, the more it seemed to encourage them. I couldn’t make out their words, but their tone and laughter pierced my ears. I can still hear it now.

I was afraid. I didn’t dare breathe. I didn’t know what breathing would do, but I couldn’t breathe even if I wanted to. I ran into the women’s restroom and sat in a stall. I was alone. Afraid. I could still hear their laughter, their taunts.

“Go back to your country.”

The tears started flowing. I hugged myself. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. I was alone. I remember thinking, We are alike. I was born and raised here. I am a U.S.-born citizen. I am a student here too. I want to create a career path for myself and be successful, too. We are the same but different. Different but the same.

I exited the stall once I thought they were gone. I looked in the mirror. I really looked. My eyes are dark, my hair even darker. My nose is a little crooked, and I have a mole on my face. I am of caramel complexion with a yellow undertone. I stared at my hands with a sense of betrayal.

“Go back to your country.”

I felt angry. I felt sad. I felt afraid to leave the bathroom. But why was I afraid? Why did those words affect me the way they did?

Now I was angrier. At them. But mostly at myself. And I didn’t understand why.

Who did those boys think they were? What made them think they could talk to me that way? I was raised to be a strong and independent woman. How dare I let them instill this unknown fear in me? I grabbed my backpack and peeked outside. I heard no one. I saw no one. I practically ran to my car. Confusion, sadness, and anger clouded my thoughts and vision when I got home. I pulled my blanket over myself and plopped onto the couch as I turned on the TV. I reached for my mostly melted coffee.

“Don’t worry, we’ll take our country back,” said the voice on the TV. I turned to see the future leader of our country during his campaign for the 2016 election.

“Go back to your country.”