“You’re definitely not black. At least, not African American black. And you’re not West Indian either. Whatever country is not in the West Indies.” “Maybe you can be fake West Indian. Or are you Indian? Mexican? Native American?” “Where’s Suriname? Africa?” My generation is the first in our family to be born in America. Both my parents were born in the smallest (and only Dutch-speaking) country in South America, of which I can assure you the majority of the population does not know exists. I was raised in the suburbs of Atlanta. My father was a black foreign man living in the south. The issue of race was always hovering. My mother, on the other hand, is extremely pale, but is of mixed descent. I can recall countless conversations with strangers when I was young and out with one parent, laughing and saying “Oh, your mom must be white,” or “You’re dad is black, right?” I’d just smile and nod, not thinking much of it. When I was young, I didn’t see race as much of an issue. It never posed a problem until middle school. When we began standardized testing, I could never identify as just black, and my mom couldn’t be considered white. Mixed was never an option. Friendships were no longer based on who you had the most fun with, but on your …show more content…
I didn’t have the curl pattern of a black girl, and my hair was far too big and frizzy to be considered another race’s trait. No one knew exactly what group I belonged to, and that’s when they’d throw any ethnicity at me. Eritrean, Brazilian, Guyanese. I’d try to explain that I was Surinamese, but when no one had ever heard of the country, I’d give up and say it was “one of those three small countries at the top of South America. Next to Guyana.” Sometimes it’d ring a bell, but more often than not, people would just agree in hopes of moving on from a subject they’d lost interest in. No one wanted a history/geography lesson from a little
This cognizance really ensued when I first started work as an educational therapist in a residential placement for severely emotionally disturbed teenage girls. Being in such a arbitrary position of power was difficult enough with people who have issues with control and lack of respect from elders but I also happened to be the only male ever in this position at the facility and a "white guy" to boot. Ninety percent of my clients happened to be Latina or African American. This ethnic flash point did not initially bother me because of my lack of awareness of its existence and my naive determination that it was not important for my therapeutic and educational goals. However, of course I had not really considered at that time what being 'white' really entails in this society. Consideration of one's identity is obviously key to successful educational and therapeutic interventions but it took the actual experience of being what I call "white-washed" to make me realize that skin color may actually have something important to do with one's perceived identity.
Race has been a controversial issue throughout history and even more so today. The idea of race has contributed to the justifications of racial inequality and has led to the prejudice and discrimination of certain racial groups. Race and racism were constructed to disadvantage people of color and to maintain white power in America. Today, race has been the center of many political changes and actions that have affected people of color. The idea of race has played a role in how people from different racial groups interact amongst each other. Interactions within one’s own racial group are more common than interactions among other racial groups, at least in my own experiences. Therefore, because I have been positioned to surround myself with people from my own racial group since a very young age, I have internalized that being around my own racial group is a normal and natural occurrence.
My parents were proud of being African American Guyanese immigrants, and they often speak about their grandparents who were Portuguese, British, and from St. Vincent. My parent’s sibling didn’t all look alike and their ancestors didn’t either and I never once heard them speak badly about them being lighter or darker. In fact, my father would boast about having ancestors that are White, Spanish and Indian. Gaining a sense of ethnic and racialized self both worked in my favor and against me. I live in a neighborhood surrounded by many different ethnicity, nationalities, and race. Along the years it changed, less and less Caucasian people lived in the neighborhood. I was raised around people of many different racial identity and ethnicities, this allowed me to accept them because I was exposed as an adolescent. My parents shared friends of various races in which they spoke highly about and they never instilled in me that I shouldn’t accept a certain race. However, I wish they taught me how to deal with those that are not so accepting of African
As a child, my family never really talked about race to me as much as what I would assume other families did with their children. The main way that I first learned about race was when I watched television or went to preschool. Once I started feeling the urge to ask questions about why other people look different compared to (me physically) was when they started to talk about it a little more. They told me that there are different kinds of people in the world and that everyone looks different, yet some people that look different belong to the same group of people. They gave me a few examples of what these categories were and I eventually saw more examples as I started moving up through grade sch...
I wanted to wear brand clothes/shoes they did, I wanted to do my hair like them, and make good grades like them. I wanted to fit in. My cultural identify took a back seat. But it was not long before I felt black and white did not mix. I must have heard too many comments asking to speak Haitian or I do not look Haitian, but more than that, I am black, so I always had to answer question about my hair or why my nose is big, and that I talked white. This feeling carried on to high school because the questions never went away and the distance between me and them grew larger. There was not much action my family could take for those moments in my life, but shared their encounters or conversations to show me I was not alone in dealing with people of other background. I surrounded myself with less white people and more people of color and today, not much has
What does it mean to be Black in America? Is a question that has been brought up frequently in my life. Being of a minority in a country that was founded on independence and freedom doesn’t really apply to me. Well, at least the independent and free part. We are forced to dress, talk, walk, act, perform a certain way that fits the way the majority wants us to. We are unable to live up to who we truly are, in fear that we wont be accepted or miss out on opportunities. To be black is seeking balance between being conscious of the events unfolding around you, while not allowing them to compromise your moral integrity and the way you carry yourself.
As a kid, I didn’t understand what race meant or its implications. I was pretty much oblivious to it. Race meant getting some kids together and running a foot race. The one who made it to the end of the block won. I never felt that I was special because of my race. Nor did I feel discriminated against. Of course, I was sheltered from race and racism. I never knew any people of color because I grew up in an all-white, lower-to-middle-class blue-collar neighborhood. I never encountered someone of another race, and my parents made sure of it. I wasn’t allowed outside of our own neighborhood block, as my mother kept a strong leash on me. Not until I was much older did I wander outside the safety net of our all-white neighborhood.
When it is time for me to fill out any form that asks me to check my ethnicity I become confused. My confusion comes from the difficulty of not finding my ethnicity on one of the boxes and the assumption of others who sees me differently. The assumption of me being either from India or Bangladesh becomes an astonishing revelation when I say that I am not from either country. I identify myself as Guyanese Indian. I was born in Guyana by native Guyanese parents. However, my grandparents and great grandparents originated from Kolkata India. They were slaves who worked on sugar plantations in India and then transported to European colonies to continue their work.
As far as I am concerned, moving to the United States has taught me a lot
The narrator was unaware of his “colored” origin early on in his life. He was observant of his surroundings, but never...
One day I wake up and you are in a war and you are getting yelled at to come help fight, but the white person next to you is just standing there and not getting yelled at so you go fight and you get a gun to fight but it is a pistol and the other people have AR.
In light of our class discussion about the light skin, dark skin dichotomy I decided to write about my perspective on the issue. Growing up I quickly found out the color of my skin impacted my life in a foremost way. In my childhood years I traveled a lot, but I spent the majority of my life in Jacksonville, Florida. Jacksonville is mildly diverse, especially in the area where my family and I lived. Moreover, the school I attended was predominantly white. With that being said, I was immersed into a setting where I could not culturally or ethnically relate to anymore. Furthermore, I found myself struggling with my identity. In school my peers and classmates would ask: “are you white?” Of course inside I knew who I was— I knew I was black; however, I began to lose sight of my ethnic background and ethnic identity. Furthermore, I found that it was harder for me to connect with people of my own race and ethnicity. Most of my friends where white; yet, I noticed that I was always stigmatized as the odd ball out with my “friends” and it was almost as if I was not good enough to be their f...
Wait. Be still. Don't go over the line. Don't let go. Wait for it. "BANG!" My reactions were precise as I sprung out of the blocks. The sun was beating down on my back as my feet clawed at the blistering, red turf. With every step I took, my toes sunk into the squishy, foul smelling surface, as my lungs grasped for air. Everything felt the way it should as I plunged toward my destination. I clutched the baton in my sweaty palms, promising myself not to let go. My long legs moved me as fast as I could go as I hugged the corner of the line like a little girl hugging her favorite teddy bear. The steps were just like I had practiced. As I came closer to my final steps, my stomach started twisting and my heart beat began to rise. The different colors of arrows started to pass under my feet, and I knew it was time.
Growing up in a multi-cultural nation, I occasionally experienced opposition from my own peers. One of my most profound moments occurred in my first year of school. There were very few people of color, but all I wanted was to be accepted by my classmates. As the
When I talk about my black heritage or culture as a whole I very often get shut down or laughed off with people telling me that “claiming to be partially black is rude and racist”, which I always found offensive considering I would never do or say that to anyone of any race. Because of this, growing up I usually just identified as a white Canadian and dined my other half. I lived this way for nearly 14 years of my life until one day while I was out with my dad, I took a street survey for coca cola when I was asked my race. I answered the same way I had for the past decade, caucasian. As I answered, I could see my fathers face go from happy to