Me llamo David Sebastián Castañeda Molina. Dah-veeth Sih-bah-stee-ahn KAHS-tah-NiEH-dah Mo-LEE-nah. And during my life, I’ve allowed everyone who didn’t know me from birth to call me differently. Day-vid. That’s not me. I’m not white. I’m brown, soy Mexicano. With pride and fear all together.
Me llamo Dah-veeth
Everyday I live in fear that one day I’ll be forced home. As much as I love México, it’s not what I know, because its economy wasn’t good enough for my grandparents to live in. They made a life here, lived through a language that isn’t theirs, amongst people who call him John despite God naming him Juan and with people who never bothered with her name. Refugio. Se llama Refugio y es mi Abuela.
In 1986, my grandparents began the process of moving over to what they called “the other side.” My mother was nine, her sister was 10. In Dec. 1994, they finally received their green card, and five months later they left their country. While my grandparents were excited for this change in life, my mom and aunt were just excited to finally have a closet in their rooms. It took nearly a decade for my grandparents to come here on your country’s terms. Ten years that they had to live in a small home they borrowed from my great uncle. Within 10 years, the following can happen:
- A child born today can learn to walk and talk, learn the multiplication and division tables, and develop their own personalities by the time they reach age 10
- Two and a half presidential terms can take place: up to 3 changes in power, shifts in policies, alternating political parties, and changes in the economy
- Highways and roads will have been built from the ground up
- Two Summer Olympics; two Winter Olympics; two World Cups
- A freshman in college can gain their doctorate
On Jan. 21, 2025, the official Spanish website for the White House was taken down, making it harder for those wishing to come here legally to start the process. Users were met by a 404 error and a message that read “Go Home.” Though it has since been changed, enough people saw it and understood the message loud and clear.
On Feb. 27, 2025, I walked the streets of Inwood, New York by myself in hopes to find parts of my culture in a state I was unfamiliar with. While asking for directions to my destination, I was warned by the people at the subway information desk that I could die where I was headed. “Do you want to get shot? / Good luck to you.” I saw people riding bikes, eating my food and the food of other cultures, and listening and dancing to NUEVAYoL by Bad Bunny. Despite being on my own in streets I hadn’t roamed before, I felt safe; I felt okay. On a subway ride later on in the week, a passenger threatened to stab my coworker in the face if he wasn’t careful. This was near Bryant Park.
A day later, on Feb. 28, 2025, my coworkers and I had some burgers. Midway through our meal, a man at the bar stood up, screaming, “Donald Trump is our president and all you illegals will see that soon.” He yelled for about 15 more minutes about how people like me should go back to México. He then began to run around the restaurant yelling and approaching tables, eventually arriving at ours. He yelled in my face. I was sitting on the edge of the booth, and he hit my arm when he slammed his hands on our table. I can’t remember what he said exactly – all I know is I felt unsafe and I didn’t feel okay. My coworker, whose skin is lighter than mine, began to panic in fear of what was happening. This was in Hell’s Kitchen.
Me llamo Sih-bah-stee-ahn
Until today, I never told anyone that. That name wasn’t white, and the way my English speaking friends pronounced it – Suh-BAH-shun – never sounded as natural to me as Day-vid. Neither pronunciation are my name.
On Jan. 20, 2017, three days before my thirteenth birthday, my mom dropped me off at school. Before I left her Jeep Compass, I cried until I couldn’t breathe. Because, despite not knowing the difference between “red or blue” or “left or right”, I knew the man in power wanted me gone. I knew he wanted to throw away all the books my mom read to learn his language. Maybe he thought her English was too broken or her grammar was bad. I’m still not sure. On Jan. 20, 2017, I knew people in the country saw her – and me – as rapists; as criminals. My mom barely knew how to exit out of a website. I was twelve.
564 days earlier on June 16, 2015, Donald Trump announced his presidential campaign and stated:
According to the United States Sentencing Commission, a whopping 81.9% of people sentenced for drug trafficking were U.S. citizens. Yes, 43.5% of traffickers are shown to be Hispanic, but that does not inherently mean they are here illegally. However, I doubt Trump and his followers could tell the difference. I grew up in a neighborhood with drug issues, absent parents, money struggles – the whole stereotype. My brown friends and I were never the ones selling, we were the ones being sold to. I’ve never touched a drug. I am Hispanic. I’m not here illegally. However, I’m sure he’d say otherwise just by looking at me.
Me apellido Castañeda
Don’t forget the tilde. That’s me. For 21 years, I’ve had to close tabs telling me my last name isn’t valid when trying to purchase items online. “Enter a valid last name with no special characters or numbers.” On March 1, 2025, Donald Trump signed an executive order to make English the official language of the United States, despite 1 in 5 Americans speaking a language other than English in their homes.
On Sep. 11, 2022, I began a draft on Google Docs. I named it “Invalid Characters”. I made a crappy graphic and everything in hopes to find the strength to voice my frustration with websites diminishing my tilde. I only got a couple sentences in. I got scared that I’d be too loud; that I didn’t have anything valuable to write another article about; that my anger was invalid, just like my last name. Why did I wait 928 days suppressing my sorrow?
Me apellido Molina
On Monday, Feb. 3, 2025, I protested for my right to live here amongst you all. I brought masks that day ready to hide; to flee. I offered them to a sister, but she said no, almost disgusted by the idea. I didn’t understand why. I had just seen a Border Patrol van the night before in an area I drove by a lot, where a van never was before. But then, I saw the protesters’ smiles. I heard them singing, and understood we were there not to run, but to dance.
People on the internet called me and my Mexican siblings stupid for carrying our flag rather than yours to prove our desire to stay – proving the very fact that I must be called Day-vid to sit by your side. I must be blonde, less melanated, and blue-eyed to walk amongst you. We wave the Mexican flag because we’re proud of who we are and feel we own the right to be who we are no matter the soil our soles touch.
Soy Yo, Soy Mexicano
I’ve felt so lonely and angry these past few months. I’ve felt I needed to scream the way I feel to someone. So, I wrote this – in hopes that someone out there that feels like me would know that I’m here. On March 17, 2025, I read an article from someone who felt like me all the way in Washington D.C. at American University, sharing their experience being the Child of Undocumented Immigrants at an American school. And within the minutes it took me to read the article, I no longer felt alone.
