This story was published by a Voices of Change fellow. Learn more about the fellowship here.

It was another ordinary school day when my students shuffled in before the bell. A few came straggling in a little later. Peering over my laptop, as I took attendance, I said in Spanish, “Tenemos que llegar en tiempo, mi gente” (We have to get here on time, my people).

One of my late students replied, “What did you say, Mrs. G.? I don’t speak the best Spanish.” A student snapped back laughingly, “That’s because you’re a no sabo kid, bro.”

The class erupted in laughter, as my student sat down quietly with a look on his face that showed this comment was not welcome. I entered the conversation quickly and sternly said, “Hey, listen! We don’t language shame in here ever.”

This is not an uncommon response to Latino kids in the K-12 space, which only demonstrates that they are often boxed into a single story, a story that lumps all Latino students into an entity that assumes they all share the same identity, lived experience, language proficiency, and, in some cases, the same immigration status.

Latino students often wrestle with a tumultuous relationship to their language and culture. Many first- and second-generation youth either feel pride in their Spanish language, feel pressure to minimize it, or were never taught it. There is a danger in thinking we are a monolith, and for the sake of our brilliant, diverse Latino students, who come from all walks of life, we must seek to dismantle it.

From Native Speakers to “No Sabo Kids”

The term “No sabo kid” comes from a slip in Spanish when someone says “no sabo” instead of the correct “no sé” (I don’t know). It’s not a mash-up of phrases, but a misconjugation of the verb saber. Over time, that little mistake turned into a whole label. It’s the nametag thrown on U.S.-born Latinos who grew up with Spanish in their homes but never fully held on to it. Sometimes it’s a joke, sometimes it stings, and lately, it’s even being reversed with pride. But “no sabo kid” carries more than bad grammar — it carries the story of language loss and identity across generations.

I can relate. I’m a second-generation Latina, born in the United States with parents who migrated here in their elementary school years: my father from Mexico and my mother from Puerto Rico. My mom tells me how, as a little girl walking the halls of Chicago Public Schools, she and a friend were stopped for speaking Spanish. A teacher looked down at them, two kids not even 8 years old, and flat out said, “We speak English here.”

That moment marked her. She learned English fast, with precision and efficiency, because that’s what made her feel safe. But with that came something else: forced shame with her own language. By the time I came along, English had already become the dominant tongue at home. Erasure. Dismissal. Removal. This narrative is in a dangerous loop within the Latino story, and now, I’m seeing that same tension expressed by my students.

Latino students are often mislabeled and placed in language tracks that don’t reflect their actual skills. Too often, they are unfairly seen as unmotivated or lacking intelligence, when the real barrier is language. On the contrary, some students are placed in bilingual classrooms despite strong English proficiency, simply because they indicated Spanish is spoken at home. They then must test out of the track with the Access exam, creating frustration and apathy. This mislabeling is both harmful and long-lasting, impacting learning, one’s relationship with language, self-worth, and agency.

As former Secretary of Education and fellow Puerto Rican Miguel Cardona declared, “Bilingualism is our superpower.” Yet, progress has stalled and bilingual education budgets have been slashed, making representation and language justice more urgent than ever.

The Immigration Narrative in Schools

As a Latina and immigrant daughter, I am keenly familiar with the pain my community carries. Classrooms are haunted by misconceptions that all immigrants are “illegal” or that Latino students are inherently deficient. These false beliefs perpetuate deep psychological harm, compounded by fears around immigration status.

Some students live with the daily anxiety of family deportation, while others carry it vicariously, left anxious and disillusioned. The looming presence of ICE raids and racial profiling makes even a school day feel unsafe and traumatic. I have had students come to me in tears after hearing threats of deportation. In those moments, I immediately hold space, validate their fears, and connect them with resources, but the weight remains heavy.

What’s more, Dreamers and DACA recipients face additional trauma as they are denied resources and opportunities, leaving them to navigate systems that often deepen rather than ease their struggles. Schools, when unequipped to respond to these realities, leave many immigrant families feeling unsupported. This must change. We must turn a corner to support Latino students’ academic success and affirm their identities.

Mirrors and Windows Matter

When I entered the classroom in 2009 in Chicago, I quickly noticed the shortage of Latino educators and the absence of Latino-centered experiences in the curriculum. I made it my mission to disrupt the text and dismantle Eurocentric units, maps and essential questions. Working in predominantly communities of color — especially with Latino students — I saw a clear shift in their interests, motivation and work ethic when I engaged this framework and pedagogy. They needed more than a poster on the wall; this was clear.

Rudine Sims Bishop coined the phrase, “mirrors, windows, and sliding glass doors,” in her 1990 essay “Perspectives: Choosing and Using Books for the Classroom.” For my students, the idea of mirrors took on a whole new meaning. Representation became more than just a concept — it became a lifeline. To see yourself reflected as a teacher and in the text itself is powerful, validating, and deeply influential — and many came back to tell me.

I never had a Latino educator in my entire K–12 experience until I became one, nor did I ever really study my freedom fighters and Latino contributions. That reality is problematic, especially when we consider that, according to Latinos for Education, Latino students are now the fastest-growing student population in the U.S. Thus, representation is no longer optional; it’s essential to rewrite the script.

Remaining in the classroom despite other professional opportunities, speaking Spanglish, and affirming my Latino students’ identities in what we learn have elevated both my effectiveness and their performance — and we’re not looking back. This work is part of transforming the discourse, dismantling the fixed stories too often placed on Latino students and families: that they are destined for or most live in poverty, bound to servitude occupations, or are living in the shadows of an illegal status.

What Schools and Educators Can Do

The answer may seem complex, but at its core, it is simple. First, schools must affirm that their buildings are safe spaces and sanctuaries for every student and staff member. Safety is non-negotiable. Period. Full stop. Every human in the building deserves to feel seen, valued, and protected. We must all commit to being guardians of culture.

Educators play a critical role in holding space for Latino students, acknowledging the current hostility of the political and social climate, and responding with grace and compassion. That said, we should also feel obligated to help change the narrative, debunking single stories while recognizing that assumptions are dangerous and need to be reversed, one classroom conversation, district meeting and curriculum map at a time.

What’s more, representation matters — both in the curriculum and in the adults guiding these students. This should also be intentional, consistent, and prioritized in every classroom and hiring process.

Finally, schools must act with purpose to challenge the single story that too often defines Latino students and their communities. This includes partnering with organizations that provide legal aid, mental health support and free educational resources, ensuring families and students aren’t left to navigate unique challenges alone.

Latina activist Dolores Huerta, whom I had the privilege of meeting, reminds us, “Every moment is an organizing opportunity, every person a potential activist, every minute a chance to change the world.” This is our moment to show up for our Latino communities, our neighbors, our newcomers and our families before this single story shapes collective consciousness and opportunity in ways we can never come back from.