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.
She loves me, her family can’t
Christian J. Collier,
Chattanooga, TN.
Caring and dedicated, always helping others.
Georgie Oedekoven,
Rock Rapids, IA
>I enjoy helping others to ensure their own happiness. I care deeply about my friends and family.
Central Lyon High School
While there’s no finishline: Americans All
William Eckman,
Atlanta, GA.
We come from different families, different cultures, different schools but for all to win as a great nation we must be less tribal and remember “out of many one”! This is the glue that holds us together and allows all of us to work to make tomorrow better than today across ALL arenas.
Military families: ahead of the curve.
Monique Hollis-Perry
Alpine, CA
Military bases overseas were homes to many biracial families like mine, and my sister and I went to school with classmates who looked like us. It was many years and thousands of miles from being sent to Fort Gordon, GA as a test case in the 1960s to see how (or whether) soldiers with mixed families could live safely in the South. It was sobering to return to the States and meet people who found us “exotic”, “foreign”, and “strange”. These inquiring minds did not understand that kids like me came from two interconnected cultures: the military and the slipstream allowing us to draw from both parents’ heritages. For us, this was normal.
From the shadows into the light
Dulce K Struthers,
Mount Vernon, WA
I grew up undocumented and am still unlearning my behavior and ways of thinking to not draw attention to myself or my family.
I’m Italian, West Asian, North African
Leah Granen,
Santa Clarita, CA
I grew up thinking I was second generation 100% Italian/Sicilian. I realized that my grandfather and great uncles had Americanized their names because they wanted to assimilate. As a fair skinned, freckled red head I was considered to be most likely Irish.
I married a second generation Irish/Ukranian. We adopted a son from South Korea who is 1/2 Korean and 1/2 Hispanic. Then to our surprise we had a biological daughter. That’s when I started hearing “why is your son so brown?” and “people love their biological children better than the adopted ones”. How wrong these people are! And how none of their business it was!
Unfortunately I think all of us who are considered “White” these days still have (hopefully just) remnants of conscious and sub-conscious thoughts that are racist and try to deal with them by learning as much as possible about racism. Your book is a wonderful tool.
And I was delightfully surprised when I took the DNA test from 23 and me and realized I am 80% Italian and 20% West Asian and North African! And, as most of us know now, my ancestors deepest roots are from central Africa!
My daughter is married to a man who has Hispanic and Jewish ancestry. I have a wonderful daughter-in-law who is Pakistani and now a 16 month old grandson who is Korean, Hispanic and West Asian.
My family is an amazing mix of cultures and nationalities. I feel that race is a social construct that really makes no sense but deserves the pursuit of our knowledge in order to shine a light on the dangerous impact and effects of what race has meant to the history and progress of this country.
Did my great grandpa regret Vietnam?
Holland Eric Gray,
Lubbock, TX
Sometimes I just wonder if my older family members had any regrets before they died.
We assumed their father was black!
Melissa Weir,
Trout Valley, IL.
We like to think that we are like every other family, whatever that means. But questions like “are those your real kids” or “what happened to their real parents” make that impossible. Nonetheless we are a close, joyful, and fortunate family.
“Why are my baby dolls black?”
Julee Freeman,
Thornton, CO
I remember asking myself this question when I was a young teen going through my old toys and I couldn’t understand why I, a very much white individual from a white family, had so many black baby dolls. Years later, in my adulthood, my aunt told me the story which gave me the answer – I simply thought they were the most beautiful. I think of this to remind myself not only of my natural biases but the ones that I have learned from the “shoulds” in our society.
My race does not define me
Kristin Koby,
Palm Bay, FL.
I was put up for adoption before I was even born. A loving white family of 7 took me in and treated me, a mixed race infant, as their own. They soon after adopted a black child so that I could have a sibling my age to grow up with – they were always thinking about what was best for all of us kids…I’m a very lucky person. I’d like to say I’m sorry to all of my family for everything they endured because of adopting me and my brother. I’m sorry that both of my parents families disowned them. The last thing my dad said to his family after they told him that I would never be one of them, was “Get the f*ck out of my house”. I’m sorry the catholic church shunned them and kicked us all out. My very religious parents never stepped foot in a church again because they felt so betrayed. I’m sorry for the big black cars that sat outside our home watching us. I’m sorry for the crosses that were burned in our yard. I’m sorry for all the eyes that turned our way in disbelief and disgust. But I’d also like to say thank you. Thank you for bringing me into a fantastic family. Thank you to my dad’s brother and very Irish mother who stuck by my dad and his decisions. Thank you to my sisters who took me to show and tell. Thank you to my brothers who always joked, “you know, we can always return you if you don’t stop crying” – that would always make me laugh. Thank you to the one pastor from the church that gave us the boot who baptized me in a warehouse and wrote a caring letter to me that I still have to this day. Thank you family for making sure I knew how much you loved me and how special I am. Thank you for pushing me to be the best I can be. Thank you for teaching me that race is not important. Thank you for loving me for me and giving me a chance to grow up in a loving, caring family environment.
“Why Do You Look So Exotic?”
Jaya Harrover Saxena
Astoria, NY
My dad moved to America from India as a child. My mom’s family has been in America since the 1630s. I have always been me.
Scared that we are not enough
Tanya,
Manakin Sabot, VA.
My (adopted) son is biracial, his bio-father is unknown. I will never be able to connect him with his biological African American family. There is a void that I will never be able to fill for him . This breaks my heart as his mama.
I miss eating Vindaloo with Dad.
Wilhelmine Taylor,
Australia.
My father’s family was originally from India, but his mother was Scottish/Danish. People tended to assume he was a white guy with a deep tan, so when he and I went out for curry, the restaurant employees were surprised when he ordered vindaloo. One of my happiest memories of him was the time when, after Dad’s vindaloo had been brought out, all the restaurant staff came out and stood in the kitchen doorway and watched him eat as though he was defusing a bomb in front of them.
In many ways, my father’s family history is a generations-long tragedy. When Dad’s great-grandfather moved to Australia from India, he did so as the brown adopted son of an otherwise white, English family. His adoptive father appears to be the only member of the family who wanted him. Dad’s great-grandfather tried his hardest to fit in, and doing that meant leaving his culture behind and trying to become an English gentleman. Every generation after him was taught to blend in- to dress white, and act white, and to marry the whitest person they could find.
Dad married my blonde mother, but he also ate vindaloo, and he was the first member of his family in a hundred years to reconnect with Indian culture. He was proud of who he was and where his family was from, though for most of his life it wasn’t safe to talk about that in public. The racist undercurrent in Australia has a terrible impact, and even now the emphasis is still on assimilation and toning down cultural differences, when it should be on celebrating diversity in all its myriad forms.
But because Dad was the only member of his family to reconnect with his heritage, I can’t talk about that with his family. They’re all pretending to be white. So I’m here, telling a stranger that I miss my late father, who loved vindaloo.
Yeah I’m Hispanic… I’m Actually Guatemalan!
Bryan Ramirez,
Los Angeles, CA
I embrace being Guatemalan. I always get asked where are you from? Being from Guatemala you usually don’t get asked the question are you from Guatemala? I say with a big bright face! YES! My Family is from Guatemala! A Guatemalan Livvvvinnggggg!!
Los Angeles Valley College.
