When I see rain streak down car windows, deja vu transports me back into my elementary school body, engulfed in the too-big front seat, face squished against the window, watching my city streets blurred by the pattering rain. Growing up in Central District, Seattle, I knew rain was home. I knew climbing out windows with my cat and rooftop sleepovers under the stars. I knew sidewalk chalk and turning the hose into a water park with cousins. I knew tamales during the day and midnight trips to Ezell’s Chicken. I knew the Sunday chorus bellowing from the church down the street and the homely smell of weed. I knew Macklemore’s songs word for word. His lyrics dropped location references that I often had under my feet. And I knew the graffiti on my streets by heart, the faces on murals traced into my memory. I knew this world as my own, my America, my norm. Until one day, some graffiti in my driveway brought reshaped my worldview.

On a late night, two loud men could be heard slurring words loudly back and forth, hooting and laughing past our windows. What I thought was just some nightly entertainment, yet, upon going outside the next morning, I saw that up and down all the streets were glittered with new graffiti left trailing their late-night show. And in my driveway, I found a big bubbly-looking thing embedded in blue into the cracked cement.

Crouched down with my older sister, holding onto my knees, I stared at the new art piece contemplating its resemblance. However, my sister, who already knew, was ready to play teacher and give me my first lesson on male anatomy. I didn't get it. In all fairness, she was explaining it wrong. But the girl loved to preach, going on an in-depth biology lesson while I squatted there dumbfounded and severely misinformed. Weeks passed, and the bubbly thing resided as our home’s new welcome mat.

One day some friends from my school were coming to pick me up for the afternoon, so my mom and I scooped dirt from the garden, patting it down over the art piece. When my friends and their mom came, our welcome mat went discreetly unnoticed.

My house was a duplex, and another woman lived on the first floor, while we lived above. She was an enthused feminist and vegan, author of the book C***, found only with a joint in her hand and a beloved white fluffy cat trailing her. While out with my friends, she decided to spray the dirt off the driveway with the hose and spray paint a massive crooked red heart over my biology lesson. Later that day, when my friends and

I got back we all got out of the car and were met with the new spontaneous symbol of love. My friend's mom looked over at me with confusion plastered across her face, as the word “what” started to form on her lips. With no explanation to give I interrupted her quickly and blurted out “thank you, bye!”. Then I ran up the outdoor stairs to my house, flying through the door. Abruptly leaving them standing there befuddled.

This event made me realize the importance of being unashamed. My initial reaction was to be embarrassed, but later in school I told my friends about the reason for the heart in my driveway and we all laughed together. Their amusement instead of judgment showed me that I was giving too much power to others' perceptions of me by trying to control the narrative and the way people saw me and saw my home. This was a changing point for me as my personality grew to be more secure in myself and open about being flawed. I learned that having a good laugh with friends was better than hiding imperfections and I felt pride for the imperfect rainy streets of my America.

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