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A Southern Belle? No. Korean husband.

korean soutern belleLeah Lee (now Leah Durst-Lee),
Chicago, IL.

Keeping cultural heritage is very important to me, so when I married my husband, Sihyun Lee, I wanted our kids to have a Korean surname. Our first year and a half of marriage, I took my husband’s name and became ‘Leah Lee.’ It was awful! Almost everyone I introduced myself to stifled a laugh and proceeded to ask me something about the American South. My mom is a Californian and I am from Iowa, so naturally I couldn’t speak to anything ‘Southern.’ Once people grew to know me more, many insisted on a nickname of ‘LeahLee’ slurred together in a Southern drawl. Needless to say, I recently hyphenated my name and haven’t received a single new Southern belle quip.

“Shonda?” No interview. “SK?” Wow, interview!

Shonda Kay Purvis,
Green Cove Springs, FL.

I have had to rebrand myself and change my name because “Shonda K. Purvis” (and her “BLACK” resume) doesn’t get job interviews, but SK Purvis (and “his” “WHITE” resume) does. (By the way, I am a Caucasian female. You thought I was black, didn’t you?)

Left Crying in the Bathroom Floor

Charlie,
USA.

I brought my car in for an oil change (in the predominantly black area I live in) and they told me that it’d be an hour before they could get to it. ‘No big deal,’ I though, ‘There’s a shopping center across the street.’ As I made my way down the sidewalk, a man cat-called as he drove past. I didn’t think much of it as I crossed the street and headed towards Big Lots. However, he had turned around and was now pulling into the parking lot.

“Hey,” He said, getting out of his vehicle. “I don’t wanna come on too strong, but you’re really beautiful.” At this point, I was flattered. I had recently had my daughter, and was feeling uncomfortable in my own skin due to the weight gain.
“Thanks for saying so, but I’m married,” I replied.

“He’s a lucky man. Are you happy?” He asked, following me up the parking lot. His remarks began to get invasive and personal, making me extremely uncomfortable. I gave him a more stern ‘No’, and he had seemingly gotten the message. He hung back and didn’t follow me as I walked into the store.

Less than five minutes after I entered the store, he came in. I told myself that I was being paranoid, that he was probably planning to come in regardless. Not really wanting to face him again, I made my way to the back aisles and tried to focus on shopping. He soon found his way to the opposite end of my aisle, basket empty. I tried to pretend that I hadn’t seen him, and went to the furniture section. Yet again, he had somehow ended up within 10 feet of me. Even though it could have still been an uncomfortable coincidence, I decided to just purchase the phone charger in my basket and head to a different store. As I was handing the cashier my card, he came up to the register next to mine, only a pack of gum in his hand.

There was a grocery store attached to the Big Lots, so I made a bee-line for it. He entered the store soon after I did, and I was beginning to have a hard time believing he wasn’t following me. Despite my obvious attempts to lose him, he managed to be in or near every aisle I was in. I was beginning to get frightened, so I went to the women’s bathroom at the front of the store. A female employee saw the look on my face and asked worriedly, “What’s wrong?” I explained the situation to her and she asked for his description so they could call the police.
The moment I mentioned his skin color, her eyes dulled. Suddenly, her responses to me were short and a bit annoyed, as if I was wasting her time. She told me to wait and she would see about getting her manager, so I did. I sat in that bathroom for thirty minutes before I realized that no one was coming. From a different perspective, I understand that I might have looked like a racist white woman (who is in reality half Mexican) wanting to cry wolf about a POC harassing me. At that moment though, I didn’t care how I looked. I sat in the floor and cried, terrified of the possibility that the man was still in the store. Sad that the employee (who was also black) saw me as a racist, not a frightened woman who genuinely needed her help. Angry with her for leaving me alone while he might have still been out there.
Thankfully, the store manager (who was also black) happened to walk in on my sobbing. After explaining to her what happened, she informed me that no one had mentioned the incident to her at all. She called the police herself and sat with me at the café area until they had arrived. Luckily, he left, but the manager didn’t leave my side until the police officer confirmed it. As mortified as I was at the situation and the employee’s inaction, I’m forever grateful to the manager who saw the problem and not my race, and helped resolve the situation.

The plantation haunts my gay marriage.

Erik Shawn Frampton,
Charlotte, NC.

I am the descendant of a line of plantation owners in South Carolina. As a gay man, my upcoming marriage will finally occur on our 20th anniversary together. My larger southern family struggles to see my identity as sacred, just as they struggle still to see minority life as sacred. But what progress. From chains to wedding bells with a gay Asian man.

Grandma’s racial rejection disappeared with Olivia

Elizabeth Clair Winslow,
Denver, CO.

No one from my immediate family showed up when George and I were married. But when Olivia was born, all that changed. George was from Jamaica… a brown man. I was from Maryland; Mom said black Irish. Olivia teaches us about Intersectionality and Bias, twenty years later.

Mexican Born achieving my American dream

Jesus Castro
Menifee, CA
California Baptist University
CBU HIS311

I was born in Mexico and am the first person in my family to have a career with retirement benefits. Proud to be in this country and served in the Military. I now have a family and I am teaching my 2 year old son the spanish language. **CBU HIS311

Born Norwegian, Raised American, not illegal

Linda Kristensen,
Grand Rapids, MI.

I am writing this for my daughter who is 34 with Autism. She became my daughter in 1980 when I was living in Norway. We returned to the USA in 1983 but my daughter even after 30 years is still not an American citizen. Here’s part of her story….

My oldest daughter, Maigunn was born on January 10, 1979 in Hammerfest, Norway (the northern-most city in the world). When Maigunn was 5 months old, she was sent to an orphanage across the county in a town called Vadso near the Russian border. There she remained until my now ex-husband and I received her at 23 months as a foster child. We were told that she was stiff like a doll and may be mentally retarded but the staff also thought it might be just the orphanage environment. Norway like most “Western” cultures believes that children should be raised in a home and not an institution. Most of the orphanages in Norway have only severe mentally impaired children with very strange behaviors. The staff felt that if Maigunn were part of a family that maybe she would be normal once she wasn’t exposed to these behaviors. When the woman in charge of adoption in northern Norway called and requested that we come to Vadso and see Maigunn; I was visiting my family in the USA; not having been back for 3 years. So my ex-husband went alone to see this little girl. When he arrived, he immediately fell for this little toddler, called me and it was agreed that we would take her. She would be our “long-term” foster daughter, just like an adoption. (This has come back to haunt us even today.)

So my mother and I began buying clothes, shoes, toys and other toddler supplies. I sent several boxes to Norway, prior to my return and remember that my ex-husband was in tears upon opening them.

My first impression of Maigunn when they brought her for a visit was that she was blind. She looked straight ahead with no eye contact. The other thing I noticed was that she loved spinning objects. (These are two of the classic signs of Autism) At the time if someone had said, “Do you think she has Autism?” I would have responded with “What’s that?” Even as a physical therapist, I had no exposure to this disability and very little was known and there were very few treatment options.
Maigunn at 2 years had no language, had just begun to walk so she had that abducted or teetering gait that is so typical in babies just starting out on their own feet. So the first task was to get language. I don’t know why but it seemed natural and was an international word so we started with, “Baby”. Phonetically and developmentally, I think “B” is an easier consonant to say than many other consonants. Well it took 9 months where she studied our mouths and felt our lips with such intensity that you’d have thought she was discovering the contents of the Rosetta stone. I remember one morning waking up to Maigunn’s chatter of saying and half singing “Hakke” which is Norwegian for chin. It must have stimulated me for after that I began singing songs to Maigunn with the word “Baby” in them; everything from “Rock-a-bye Baby to “I love you and don’t you forget it, Baby”.
As a physical therapist, I knew that we only had a limited amount of time to catch up. When she was almost 3 years old, she was evaluated at Mary Free Bed Rehabilitation Center. At that time, she was 1 ½ years behind and the gap would only increase if she couldn’t make significant gains in a short time.
The summer of 1982 was a turning point in our lives. My mother was very sick in the hospital with hepatitis, and Norway had no services for Maigunn until age 7; so we decided to return to the USA. Even then it took another 2 years until she was diagnosed with Autism and placed in special education through the public school system.

The negatives have been numerous.
Like the first pediatrician we encountered in the U.S. who upon doing a preschool check-up, found that Maigunn was in the 75 percentile for height and weight and told us that we should consider institutionalization since she was bigger than most kids her own age and therefore could be dangerous to the other children.
Like the time at a playground when a mother hit Maigunn for choking her child in the same manner her daughter had just done to Maigunn. Unfortunately Maigunn thought the other child was playing a game with her and didn’t understand that the little girl was being mean to her.
Like the children who chased Maigunn on the way to her school bus stop, so that she ran out into the street, almost got hit by a car and lost her new pair of glasses. And when I tried to get the school to change the bus stop just three blocks down the street, they refused.
Like the neighbor children at the end of the block who chased and teased Maigunn every time she road her bike past their house until she got wise and began taking an alternative route which of course was on a busy street.
Like the teacher who misplaced Maigunn’s lunch money envelope on her messy desk and blamed Maigunn for being forgetful (the underlying idea was that she was handicapped and therefore couldn’t remember her lunch money). Only later to find out that the lunch money was on her desk after all. However the Principal did call and ask if Maigunn wanted a formal apology. Of course she didn’t since Maigunn just doesn’t hold grudges.
Like at the Middle School Formal Dance where a bunch of students egged one of their group to ask Maigunn for a dance. He then made faces behind her back the whole time, while I stood by watching, debating whether or not to step in and deciding that these things are going to happen. But once again thanking god for Autism since she never realized that they were mocking her.
Like spending time and money to have Maigunn trained to take the city bus only for the bus system to change the bus route numbers the following year so she ended up taking bus # 5 which instead of going to our neighborhood, now went to the airport. So rather than getting home at 4:30, we got a call at 6:30 that the bus driver left her at a gas station 3 miles from our home. (Of course from 4:30 until 6:30, I had been driving around frantically looking for her.)
Like the time a boy made sexual advances towards her after she was done with a running workout at a high school track. But again she was saved by her ability to run away and fast.
Like the neurologist who sees her briefly, diagnoses her with schizophrenia and negates all the current literature and research on Autism even though as a parent, I have done more reading and researching on the topic than he’ll ever do in his lifetime. But still unwilling to listen to me.

But there have been positives
When I went to the first school Christmas pageant that Maigunn was in and watched as the children marched in line onto the stage. Then it was Maigunn’s turn to go on stage with the other students. She stopped at the entrance, stared out in to the audience and didn’t move until the student before her came back, took her by the hand and led her to her place. When they sang she stepped forward and sang with her whole heart. At the end of the performance she mimicked the audience and clapped her hands along with them. Friends who knew Maigunn and me looked my way and smiled. It was one of those priceless moments that I wouldn’t have missed for the world.
When the Brownie and Girl Scout leader, Sharon, had no qualms about including Maigunn in their troop and treated Maigunn like one of the girls. And Maigunn wanting to be just like the other girls was the first one to approach the principal and sell a box of cookies.
When her piano teacher, Maxine, was not a stickler for learning how to read the notes but let her enjoy the beauty of playing the music. Maigunn plays the piano by ear.
When my daughter says; “Mom you need a hug” when she really means, “I need a hug.” And realizing that we conquered the sense of Touch, which is extremely difficult for people with Autism.
When she succeeded not only in being on the High School Cross-Country and Track teams. But by being able to participate as a regular student in a regular Ed sport and achieving MVP (Most-Valuable Player) Junior and Senior years for Track and received “All-City” for Cross-Country her Senior year. She accomplished what most kids with Autism rarely get: the acceptance and respect of regular Ed students as one of them.
When one of the girls who, along with her friends, mocked Maigunn behind her back at the Middle School dance, now admired her in High School for her running ability since she could never run as fast as Maigunn even though she was not handicapped.
When at a track meet, a parent from another high school came up to me and told me that my daughter was an inspiration to their team. We had talked a year or two before about my daughter and her handicapped condition and he and his team had watched her develop over the years and used her as role model for their team.
When I know that living and raising Maigunn has made me grow both personally and professionally. I’ve become a more realistic therapist and now have more empathy with my patients and their families.
When I remember the wisdom, Maigunn has expressed. Like the time I asked her during her freshman year in high school if she wished that she didn’t have Autism and she replied that she thought it was part of her. Later in her junior year her response was that she wished that she wasn’t Autistic. And now she tells me that she has to get use to this Autism.

Then there are the challenges.
Such as the years of being on the Parent Advisory Committee for Special Education in the Public Schools then on the board for the local Autism Society and finally on the state Autism board.
Such as my many job changes to accommodate my children’s needs
Such as the numerous letters of thanks and concern sent out to try to get better understanding by the public and the politicians.
Such as the loss of a marriage
Such as the hours of running with my daughter so that she would be familiar with the cross-country running courses
Such as the hours of job coaching so that she wouldn’t loose her job while she was going through a rough time.
Such as taking the chance in signing up Maigunn with the G.R. Jaycees and watching her be able to be part of a group where she is not ridiculed for being handicapped.
Such as attempting to set up private housing for my daughter so that she is in a safe and secure environment before I die. Only to find that many parents of handicapped older children do not want to talk about it. And that they are content with letting the state take over when they die and not realizing how devastating their death and change in housing will be on their adult child.
Such as the wish that we as a society would be more handicap accepting. Knowing that most of my friends would not want their sons to date my daughter. And many of my friends would not consider living in a house with a ramp even if it were aesthetically pleasing.
And thanking God for good professionals who have an uplifting approach to disability and see that they have rare talents that the rest of us do not.

And finally, the Reward
When my daughter says: “Mom, you’re the best mom this girl ever had.”

Smart black kid plays tennis alone.

20Raheem Cash,
Alexandria, VA.

As a kid I spent a lot of time being one of two or three black kids in honors classes. Spent a lot of time being only black kid that played tennis. Spent a lot of time not being considered “black enough”. Well I’m not a kid anymore and fortunately I managed thrive in a multi-cultural, multi-ethnic world.

DATING AS A “BLACK” MAN…

NR Jr.,
Tampa, FL.

So as a paid volunteer in the US Armed Forces who has traveled extensively across the world. America has a “big” color issue. I spent 6 years living abroad and coming “home” is the worst thing ever… Let me give you the reader a take into my thus short life of 29 years and counting (pending some supreme diety/iess doesn’t call me home). I was “fortunate” to be a highly intelligent child in my school years and on into college. Unfortunately I don’t have the “right” complexion to match the intelligence. As a child I was called an oreo, picked on by other black kids, loved by white kids, even had some parents tell me “i would never let my daughter date a black person but you are different.” I thought this was a “compliment” but as I got older, it is just plain out colorism (racism is the more commonly accepted term.) Why can’t I just be me? I don’t want to be boxed in by the color of my flesh or what someone else perceives my skin color to tell them about me. I am tired of being sexualized or someone’s fantasy based from an arbitrary mindset. When living abroad I felt loved by other nations and cultures, but coming back home is coming back to hatred/ second rate treatment and lots of mistreatment. I dated women form all diff backgrounds and cultures, but from my experiences in America, I don’t have the right complexion to be a well qualified bachelor. I am a product of my lived experiences and let’s all be honest, having the brown colored skin especially the darker shade in America sucks! Now being that I am an credentialed health care provider and have pieces of papers (degrees) behind it I may get a “pass”, but that’s twice as bad.

It’s almost like exceptionalism is the new colorism. Being military also adds to that, but no one knows that when you are wearing air max 90 and a Pokemon hoodie LOL. White privilege is nice… I’m tired of being people saying I don’t date “black” people. To me who wants to limit their resources in the dating pool? My parents always told me I have to be twice as smart and I will only be worth half as much. Man they weren’t lying! I just want to be a regular guy, but being regular is subjective to your complexion. The standards for dating a black guy are significantly higher than they are for a white man. I have read lots of articles from people who are in these multicultural marriages and a good percentage of the time it’s an more affluent couple, they aren’t your average run of the mill people you would encounter on a daily basis. So they are the exception not the rule. White America (did I say that?) very much still has a problem with black males and their perception/treatment of “us” is second rate and it plays out heavily in the dating/social scene. You lucky white people… what I wouldn’t give for a day in your shoes…

That Was So White Of You

Lillie Carroll,
Richmond, TX

“You are so white” is something I hear almost all of the time. I hear it after I say something quirky or do something weird. What boggles me is that something in light of being funny or myself has been boxed into the title of “being white”. Why can’t I make a dad joke, or make a funny face, or even laugh and just be “Lillie”? It makes me want to change and be different so I can avoid the backlash. Why must being myself also be tagged with being a race as well?

Much progress; much more to do

Robert Markel,
Charlestown, MA.

Raised in a very white town in Chester County Pennsylvania, I had little consciousness of race issues until high school. We had one black student in my class, and he was the Salutatorian. At the end of our senior year at Archmere Academy, several members of the class went to lunch together at the Charcoal Pit in Wilmington, Delaware. Shortly after we sat down, the manager, whom I knew very well, came up and asked me to step away for a talk. He informed me that the restaurant which I had patronized dozens of times did not serve “Negroes.” We were shocked. As it happened, V.P. Joe Biden who was one of our classmates was with us at the restaurant. I relayed the message to the group; we sat there embarrassed looking at each other; and Joe said, “let’s get out of here.” We left. I did not return for many years.

In the summer of 1963, I had a summer job at the DuPont Company’s Chestnut Run plant outside Wilmington. I worked as a laborer in shipping and receiving brooming floors and breaking down packages. The Black man who worked with me had two years of college and was a minister in Wilmington. I wondered why he was working as a laborer when he seemed educated and qualified for a better job. One day he told me that DuPont had a policy of not allowing Blacks to take the exam for a white collar “desk job.” I was astonished.

That summer, DuPont changed its policies and liberalized employment practices. My friend was allowed to take the test, and he moved up to a better job in the main offices. In August, DuPont excused any employee who wanted to attend the March on Washington. I called my friend Pete McLaughlin, and we decided to go.

We made our way to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and sat there to hear Dr. King and other speakers. There is a film that I saw at the Kennedy Library in Boston that shows a sea of Black people on the steps and two white boys sitting on the steps. Pete and I did not pay much attention to most of the speakers, but when Dr. King began to speak, we were transfixed by his words and his magnificent speaking style.

Unforgettable experience.

Too white to be Native American

IMG_20140928_144303Simone,
Chicago, IL.

A lot of people say I look too white to be Native American. It’s tiring that my mom is full Cherokee while my dad was full blown Italian, all my other bothers came out darker than me and had brown eyes, I am the only girl int he family. As far as having light skin, but tan in the summer, dark hair with green eyes. I tell people that i am mixed but seem not to believe based on soley the skin color. To me skin color doesn’t matter on a base of streotyping people, but that’s what you get on people who choose to live inside the box rather than out.

I’m American Indian-I’m a Unicorn.

eagle-motorcycleTy NolN,
Tempe, AZ.

I’m from a traditional family and have braids. I dance at Powwows, and participate in our Longhouse Ceremonies. The photograph is from when I used to do modeling and is from a calendar photo shoot, on Motorcycles. I’m on a 1935 Indian motorcycle, because one of the “gimmicks” of the calendar was “an Indian on an Indian.” I used the term “Unicorn,” because with Unicorns and American Indians, for so many Americans (and I find the same thing when I’ve traveled internationally)–everyone knows what they think Unicorns and American Indians look like, but they don’t believe we actually exist. I feel in the perception of a lot of non-Native people, particularly if they don’t live near a reservation, we are a fantasy, and exist in a vaguely historical way, but not as part of their contemporary reality. For many Native Americans, if we don’t have braids, or don’t dress in a more traditional manner, we’re usually perceived as another ethnic group–in my case Asian or Filipino. Whenever I’m in Hawaii, I’m even assumed by the locals to be Chinese-Hawaiian, and because I have long hair, I’m also thought to be a Native Hawaiian Rights Activist. One of my oddest experience was going to Florida to attend college, where the racism I encountered was directed to me not as an American Indian, but for being thought Japanese. Later, when I was in graduate school, one of my professors was Japanese-American who was very upset and shared with the class that over the weekend he had gone clam-digging on the Oregon coast, so he was very casually dressed. He stopped to eat at a restaurant and it became obvious the staff was ignoring him. He finally said in a loud voice, “I’m not leaving until I’m served.” A waitress came over and said, “We don’t serve Indians here.” When he said that, those of us who were Native, laughed–no Asian-American students in the class did.

Once, I was in Germany, and waiting in line to check into my return flight home, when a very official looking employee came up to me and asked, in German “Do you speak English?” I replied, “Fluently.” She asked for my help, and explained they had a traveler they were having problems with in communicating, since he didn’t speak German, and asked if I would be willing to help. They took me over to an elderly Japanese gentleman. I told them the only help I could offer was to order him food at a Japanese restaurant, but I wasn’t Japanese.

It’s a very odd experience to spend a great deal of my life as either being seen as not exactly “real,” or as something I’m not–I often wonder how often people actually see “me.” One morning I was in downtown L.A., waiting in front of my hotel to be picked up by someone from the L.A. Unified School District, where I was consulting. People kept coming up and asking if I were in a movie.

When I was young, an elder came to me and said, “The minute you step off the reservation, you have to think of yourself as an ambassador. When you leave the reservation, White people won’t look at you and think, “There’s (and she used my Indian name). Instead, they will look at you and think, “There’s an Indian.” And it won’t matter how much education or how well-dressed you are. They will look and you and what you do, and they will think, “That’s what an Indian does.” Over the years I’ve so often thought of her words, and how much of a burden it is I share with a lot of other non-Whites. We belong to a “collective,” and are seen and viewed as representative of that Collective. Part of White privilege is being raised to always think of oneself as an “individual,” and then getting upset to discover a lot of people will see Whites as part of a Collective as well, and that Collective doesn’t always have a positive image. I now live in Arizona. When I first moved here, I was surprised to have White strangers come up me at the bus stop or in stores, and ask if I spoke English. At the height of the anti-immigration sentiment here, many of us who are American Indians were very concerned, because when it comes to racial profiling (and the Sheriff of the county where I live has been found by a Federal investigation as guilty of racial profiling–we know most law enforcement officers probably won’t be able to tell the difference between American Indians and people they perceive as “illegal aliens.”

They only see the Asian half.

Katelyn Tsukada
Northampton, MA

My mother is of Irish and Italian heritage; my father of Japanese descent. Both of my parents were born in the United States as were their parents before them. Both consider themselves to be American as documented by their passports, drivers licenses and birth certificates. My mother and father speak English has their first and only language. And the American child they created and raised together? Well she constantly gets asked where she is “really” from because New York State is never the correct answer.

I learned to identify myself as Asian-American because that is how others categorized me. My classmates assumed Asian was the reason I got good grades. Asian was the reason I liked seafood and tanned like an islander. And Asian was the reason my grandmother was made to live in an internment camp directly following the attack on Pearl Harbor. My history. Asian history. The rich Irish-Italian culture of my mother’s family never stood a chance.

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