Suddenly, a white lifted truck slows down and approaches our group. A middle-aged white man appears from the rolled-down window and stares. He says without amusement, “You know we don’t support Mexican gangs here, you know?” I was starting to understand. The “Don’t forget to tip”, my mom reminds me as she’s dropping me and my friends off at I-Hop. The beginning of summer is upon us now, the hot California sun burning our skin. As I walked into the building, the fumes of freshly buttered pancakes wafted into my nostrils, accompanied by the sizzling of eggs meeting the surface of the grill. My stomach screamed with hunger. As I’m browsing through the menu, my eye catches an unfamiliar flavor. It reads “tres leches”. Confused, I read it aloud to my friends. Suddenly, bursts of laughter erupt around the table, seemingly amused by my question. I was confused until I heard a mocking of my pronunciation. Friends chirp, “Yeah, don’t forget you’re white Sophia”. I didn’t speak Spanish around them