I was four and Lizzie McGuire wanted a bra.

"A bra, okay? We want a bra."

"We" being Lizzie, her pigtail partner in preteen pep Miranda Sanchez, and me. Yes, I had no idea what a bra was. But, if Lizzie wanted one. I wanted one.

Miranda Sanchez may have shared my last name and Mexican heritage, but Lizzie had my heart. You see, I had the Lizzie jean jacket, Lizzie notebook, Lizzie hair accessories, Lizzie sunglasses, Lizzie beach towel.

I had never paid Miranda any attention.

Until a month ago, when another Miranda, Lin-Manuel, creator of the hit Broadway musical Hamilton, made an appearance on BuzzFeed’s Another Round. During the interview he was asked when he first realized he was not White, and when he first felt represented as a Latino.

"Oh, so early," and the "f****** cartoon Chihuahua" from Oliver and Company.

This got me thinking: Miranda Sanchez is my "f****** cartoon Chihuahua."

Right? She has to be. She is the perfect candidate: Mexican-American, spunky teen best friend. But, if I do feel represented by Miranda, why do I only remember her as Lizzie’s friend? The one that followed Lizzie to meet Aaron Carter, and helped her when she broke her arm before cheerleading tryouts. I vaguely remember a Day of the Dead celebration, and visit to Mexico City. But, besides that, Miranda was minor.

And if Miranda Sanchez was minor, was that all I was destined to be, too? My history just a collection of my relations to stock photo White Folks.

No, four-year-old Bianca Sanchez did not stand for that BS. Bianca would be Lizzie, the star of her own family-friendly, primetime sitcom.

For this reason, Miranda was forgotten, and Lizzie reigned.

I stomped through elementary and middle school, all puppy dog shirts and Silly Bandz. By the time I got to high school, when people would guess my race as white I would smile shyly. "No, I am actually Mexican and PR, with a lot of Spain in me. Thanks, though."

My conquistador lineage was a comfort. A heritage of rapists and murderers was what I identified with. Not a history of strong-willed oppositionist, resistant to a forced culture.

To be Latina was to be the servant. To be White, the master. To be Latina was to be the sidekick. To be White, the hero. To be Latina was to be Miranda. To be White, Lizzie.

And I was the Lizzie.

Then, the tectonic plates of my identity shifted while watching Gina Rodriguez win a Golden Globe for Jane the Virgin. While listening to Hamilton and realizing Lin-Manuel Miranda was just like me. While helping my Abuelos move back home. While being offered grammar help English help because late night typos were obviously the result of "English being my second language."

I figure, pop culture works as a high school science test – different elements on the left must be matched with different characteristics on the right. All options only used once. No repeats. Each population type cast.

However, we must realize there is a home in the unlikely combinations. The protagonist and Latina. The [enter what you aren’t supposed to be] and [enter what you are].

Now, my seven-year-old sister who yells out "Peggy" during The Schuyler Sisters, can find no conflict in being a Sanchez and an individual. Swirling around her are a flurry of Latinos and Latinas taking hold of what they are and running with it. Latino artists and creators shedding societal standards like fleas. Stirring everything and the kitchen sink into a stew of progress.

Broadway and rap. American TV and novelas. Apples and oranges.

We can be the hot sauce and the Cheetos, the Tabasco and the scrambled eggs, the Lizzie and the Miranda. It may have been thought to be wrong, but it is oh so right.