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1 Label Us Angry Jeremiah Torres It hurts to know that the most painful and shocking event of my life happened in part because of my race—something I can never change. On October 23, 1998, my friend and I experienced what would forever change our perceptions of our hometown and society in general. We both attended elementary, middle, and high school in the quiet, prosperous , seemingly sophisticated college town of Palo Alto. In the third grade, we happily sang “It’s a Small World,” holding hands with the children of professors, graduate students, and professionals of the area, oblivious to our diversity in race, culture, or experience. Our small world grew larger as we progressed through the school system, each year learning more about what made us different from each other. But on that October evening, the world grew too large for us to handle. Carlos and I were ready for a night out with the boys. It was his seventeenth birthday, and we were about to celebrate at the pool hall. I pulled out of the Safeway driveway as a speeding driver delivered a jolting honk. I followed him out, speeding to catch up with him, my immediate anger getting the better of me. We lined up at the stoplight, and the passenger, a young white man dressed for the evening, rolled down his window; I followed. He looked irritated . “He wasn’t honking at you, you stupid fuck!” His words slapped me across the face. I opened my stunned mouth, only to deliver an empty breath, so I gave him my middle ‹nger until I could return some angry words. He grimaced and reached under his seat to pull out a bottle of mace, spraying it directly in my face, barely missing Carlos, who witnessed the bizarre scene in shock. It burned. “Take that you fucking lowlifes! Stupid chinks!” Carlos instinctively bolted out the door at those words. He started pounding the white guy without a second thought, with a new anger he had never known or felt before. Pssssht! The white guy hit Carlos point blank in the face with the mace. He screamed; tires squealed; “fuck you’s” were exchanged. We spent the next ten minutes half-blind, clutching our eyes in the burning pain, cursing in raging anger that made us forget for moments the intense, throbbing ‹re on our faces. I crawled out of my car to follow Carlos’s screams and curses, opening my eyes to the still, spectating traf‹c surrounding us. I stumbled to the sidewalk, where Carlos pounded the ground and recalled the words of the white guy. We needed water. I stumbled further to a nearby house that had lights in the living room. I doorbelled frantically, but nobody answered. I appealed to the traf‹c for help. They just watched, forming a new route around my car to continue about their evening. The mucous membranes in our sinuses cut loose, and we spit every few seconds to sustain our gasping breaths. After nearly ‹ve minutes of appeals, a kind woman stopped to call the cops and give us water to quench the burning. The cops came within minutes with advice for dealing with the mace. We tried to identify the car and the white guy who had sprayed us, and they sent out the obligatory all points bulletin. They questioned us soon after, asking if we were in a gang. I returned a blank stare with a silent “no.” Apparently, two Filipino teenagers ‹nding trouble on a Friday evening raised suspicions of a new Filipino gang in Palo Alto—yeah, all ‹ve of us. I often ask myself if it would have been different had I been driving a BMW and dressed in an ironed polo shirt and slacks, like a typical Palo Alto kid. Maybe then the white guy would not have been afraid and called us lowlifes and chinks. I don’t think so. He wasn’t afraid of us; he initiated the curses and maced us from a safe distance. He reached out to hurt us because he was having a bad day and we looked different. That night was our ‹rst encounter with overt racism that stems from a hatred of difference. We hadn’t seen it through the smiles and happy songs of elementary school or the isolated cliques of middle and high school, but now we knew it was there. We hadn’t seen it through the clean-cut, sophisticated facade...

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