Lines We Draw, Lines We Cross

 

Lines We Draw, Lines We Cross

Date: February 26, 2026

I have often wondered whether it is my religion, my upbringing, or simply the way I am wired, but I have never centered my understanding of life around race. That is not to say that race has not been present. It has always been present. It has always been discussed. It has always hovered in the background like a shadow that refuses to detach itself from the body. Yet for me, it never felt like the organizing principle of existence. And still, the world seemed determined to remind me that skin color mattered.

I remember high school clearly. Every morning I made the long walk toward Mason Drive to reach the school bus stop. I lived three blocks away from the bus route and then had another twenty-minute walk just to reach the designated stop. Many mornings, the bus—often filled mostly with white students—would pass by and leave me standing there. Perhaps I was late. Perhaps there was another reason. After enough of those mornings, I gave up trying to catch that bus. Instead, I walked, rode my bicycle when the weather permitted, or paid to ride the city bus. I bought a monthly student pass—if I remember correctly, it cost only a couple of dollars, maybe twenty-five cents per ride for students—but for someone from a poor household, even that was a consideration.

My first real lesson in inequality was not delivered in a classroom. It was delivered through transportation. Access itself was stratified. The busing system, like much else in the community, seemed to mirror social divisions. My school operated on a four-tier academic system. The first tier represented advanced placement and higher academic tracks. The fourth tier represented the lowest academic grouping. In larger districts, there were six layers, but in ours there were four. It did not take long to observe a pattern: the upper tiers were disproportionately filled with white students, while the lower tiers were filled with brown students, many from Mexican-American families. The divisions were subtle in policy but obvious in outcome. Integration and segregation existed simultaneously, depending on how one looked at it and who benefited from the arrangement.

One incident in particular has never left me. During my freshman or sophomore year, in the men’s locker room before physical education class, a Mexican student stood quietly preparing like everyone else. He wore a mustache. He spoke primarily Spanish and kept to himself. He did not cause trouble. The vice principal entered the room, grabbed the young man by the back of the neck, and demanded to know why he had a mustache. The student responded in Spanish. Another student attempted to translate, explaining that he simply liked it. The vice principal handed him a single razor and ordered him to shave it off immediately in the restroom.

I watched in disbelief. The young man applied shaving cream and attempted to comply. He cut himself in several places. I cannot say with certainty what disciplinary action followed, but I remember hearing that he may have been expelled. Whether expelled or simply humiliated, the message was unmistakable. Authority had been exercised not for order, but for domination. That kind of persecution seemed to occur most frequently within the brown community, though at the time few people spoke openly about it.

The same vice principal often stood at the back of school assemblies wearing a trench coat and hat, as if attempting some theatrical display of authority. He looked less like an educator and more like a caricature of a detective from an old television show. Eventually, our class—the largest graduating class in the school’s history—grew tired of his conduct. Students unified, organized, and openly opposed him. The pressure mounted, and he ultimately resigned. It was one of the first times I witnessed collective action succeed. Whatever our backgrounds, many of us agreed on one thing: we did not like bullies.

Those experiences shaped my view of power. It is not skin color alone that corrupts a system. It is authority without accountability. It is structure without fairness. And I have carried that skepticism into adulthood.

Recently, in the county where I live, another controversy has emerged. In more rural and desert-adjacent parts of San Diego County—far from the coastal neighborhoods—individuals convicted of serious sexual offenses have been released after serving long sentences, some claiming over a decade of rehabilitation. Their placement into certain communities has sparked intense public reaction. Community members, particularly many women, have spoken passionately at council meetings, opposing any integration of these offenders into residential neighborhoods, even if they live miles away from schools.

What strikes me is that opposition is not divided along racial lines. The resistance is multiethnic, a mixture of backgrounds unified by fear, anger, and moral conviction. The debate centers on rehabilitation versus protection, forgiveness versus permanent exclusion. At what point, if ever, does a sentence end? Who decides when a person has been sufficiently rehabilitated? And who bears the risk if that judgment proves wrong?

These questions are not simple. They echo the same tensions I witnessed in school: who belongs, who is excluded, who is trusted, and who is permanently marked. Whether we are discussing academic tiers, bus routes, or criminal rehabilitation, the same underlying issue persists—how communities draw lines.

I am older now, and history sits heavily on my shoulders. I still distrust bullies, especially those who hold important offices. I distrust systems that quietly sort people into categories and pretend those categories are natural. Yet I have also seen the power of unity. I have seen students organize. I have seen communities mobilize. The same force that can exclude can also protect. The same public voice that can persecute can also demand accountability.

Perhaps the challenge of our time is learning how to balance justice with humanity, protection with fairness, and memory with progress. Race may not be the center of my thinking, but power always is. And power, when left unchecked, tends to repeat itself.