Commentary: The stories I needed as a Chicano boy were silenced. Now I tell them

“What do you know, you stupid Mexican?”

I stood mute in Los Angeles’ searing afternoon sun, my high school football uniform soaked with perspiration from practice. I blinked and simply stared at one of the coaches who had grunted that question. Most of the men sitting around him, and a few of my teammates, snickered.

It was 1973, my freshman year. At the time, almost the entire football coaching staff was white. It would be a few years before a person of color was hired into their ranks.

What prompted that coach to offer his bigoted retort?