Growing up, I always wished I had one of those Disney Channel lives. I was obsessed with the Disney Channel and imagined that’s how all Americans must have lived—so different from my Salvadoran immigrant family. I daydreamed about being the spunky, bright kid everyone loved, supported through her adventures of self-discovery. I pictured ideal parents in a loving home, with a beautifully decorated house and a room just for me, complete with a perfectly placed window overlooking a perfect neighborhood. I imagined siblings who bickered but always had each other’s backs, and two best friends who had grown up together, laughing through the ups and downs of life.

I often wondered what my life would have been like if it had been that way—so different from the one I was given. For much of my life, I wished for an ideal that would never be. But I’m grateful to say that, through my journey of self-acceptance, I’ve learned to love the life I was given—the perfectly imperfect, messy childhood that shaped me into the person I am today. It wasn’t easy getting to a place of acceptance, but I’ve realized that wishing for someone else’s life is a recipe for misery. Instead, I’ve learned to find gratitude in the experiences that shaped me.

Not even Jesus lived the ideal, picture-perfect life. He was born into poverty—a divine being with a single mother chosen for an extraordinary mission and an adoptive father who raised him during his most vulnerable years. A nomadic life, much like that of immigrants, destined to constantly start over in search of freedom from danger. If this great spiritual figure lived such an unconventional life, why should I be ashamed of my own? I let go of the ideal long ago and embraced the colorful journey that was given to me—because it is mine.

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I was born in none other than Washington, DC—the beautiful, vibrant Chocolate City, the capital of the United States of America. What a place, what a time! The early ’90s to 2000s—everyone says was the best era to be a kid, and I would have to agree. We lived outside, rollerblading and biking up and down our streets. I still have those two random knee bruises to tell the tale. We made mud pies and mixed potions in the dirt. We begged my grandma to let us play outside until she finally called us back in.

We had imaginations. We bought Jamaican beef patties from the corner store—my favorites, lol. We talked on landlines, three-way called our friends, and knocked on each other’s front doors, hoping their parents would let them come out to play. We lived in each other’s homes, and I was friends with almost every kid on my block. We waited for the ice cream truck to make its daily rounds so we could buy Pop Rocks and other treats. I’d ask my gramps, who was always chilling outside, people-watching for five bucks. He’d just shake his head and agree.

We listened to lyrics that, looking back, make me wonder why we were allowed to know every word of the Ying Yang Twins in the fifth grade. We listened to the now-legends of music—Britney, Usher, Backstreet Boys, Destiny’s Child—the best of the best, all while absolutely destroying our brand-new giant computers with LimeWire. We replayed our burned CDs, each with only five songs, over and over again.

We had the best cartoons—SpongeBob and Sailor Moon were my favorites, but there was also Powerpuff Girls and Fairly OddParents. I mean, how do you even pick? We grew up during the golden age of Disney, with Lizzie McGuire and Hannah Montana. I won’t lie—I was one of those kids who held onto cartoons and Disney far longer than I probably should have. I was a full-on high school childkid, way past Disney’s “recommended age.” But hey, take me as I am!

I mean, we truly had the best childhoods. Life was simple, with little unrest. Well, except for, you know… 2001. I was in the fourth grade, and I still remember it vividly—being the capital and all.

I think that after accumulating enough moments of hurt, it’s easy to forget that I actually did have an ordinary American childhood—colorful in experiences, but not all that different from the rest. I have to remind myself not to dwell only on the difficult moments because, even though some were painful, many were insanely memorable. I’m glad I was raised in the golden age of childhood. The late ’90s to early 2000s was truly the best time to be just an ordinary kid in America.

I hope you enjoyed this reflection on my golden childhood moments. This is just a prelude as I prepare to share the more difficult ones, but with the understanding that everyone’s life is a little colorful. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t a good one to live.

I hope you leave a little more inspired.

XOXO,
Blanca

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