I’ve worn a lot of hats in my life. I’ve stocked shelves and cashed out customers. I’ve tightened turnbuckles and chipped rust. I’ve cooked steak and fried fries. I’ve loaded trucks and supervised outbounds in warehouses. I’ve baked donuts for the Tim Hortons in the SU.
Excitement quickly turned to panic among the thousands of fans gathered in Oklahoma City’s Paycom Arena to watch an NBA matchup between the local Thunder and Utah Jazz last March.
In the fall of eighth grade, Friday nights meant eating too much popcorn, attempting new makeup looks and secretly watching Mean Girls in my best friend’s basement. My friends and I talked for hours about boys who didn’t know we existed, discussed Halloween costume ideas and stalked celebrities on social media accounts our parents didn’t know we had. It was my turn to receive a makeover, and all was well — until one girl scrolled onto a post about National Hispanic Heritage Month.