The Race Card Project
By Michele Norris
Andrea James Andrews
Fresno, CA
Our personal family legend includes Bull Connor from Alabama. My grandfather was diagnosed as Schizophrenic but that didn’t stop Bull Conner from killing him either before or right after they took him to the Colored Hospital for the Insane. Have an irrational hate for anything “Alabama” since then (born and raised in Ohio)
Dan Hubbs,
Queensbury, NY.
Mixed race ancestry was a family mystery. When visiting Irish relatives in Ireland, all of whom were fair skinned, I knew there was something else in my background. It turns out my mother’s father’s family, who were quite adamant about their “English” heritage, were mixed race and from the British West Indies.
James Tupko,
New Milford, CT
My grandfather came to Pennsylvania in 1907 to work in the coal mines. It had to be tough to be a Lithuanian in America.
Sonja,
East Cleveland, OH
My children are not biracial and their last name is Cohen. However their great great grandfather who married a black woman was white and Jewish
Andrew Dunn,
Meridian, ID.
My 4x great grandfather was born a slave in Virginia. My 3x great grandfather owned slaves in Missouri.
Nicole,
East Lansing, MI.
My grandfather was blind all my life. All I knew was that there was an accident. It wasn’t until he passed that I learned that the accident involved a white man. My grandfather was a doorman and was pushed into the glass door. My grandfather never spoke of the incident. I’m actually glad that he didn’t because nothing is worse than feeling angry and helpless, especially when you are a child. Instead he taught me his work ethic and to always do my best. Success is the best revenge.
T Storm Heter,
Stroudsburg, PA.
Frederick Kiehl,
Maysville, MO
He was a 3rd generation German-American farmer in middle America. He had one son in Europe and another son in the Pacific. Missouri citizen since birth. Their neighbor, Mr. Orr, Said then come with me to sell war bonds and it’ll make a difference. It did make a difference. In this instance the “race” was only propaganda from the Nazi party. This tidbit of history is still repeated as we recount our family history.
Stephanie Wichowski,
Mount Olive, NJ,.
I’m proud to be Polish and part Irish but because I’m white and a girl I automatically get grouped into other categories. I get told I can’t dance “because I’m white” and I’m told to prove that I can dance. (Mind you I’ve been training at a dance studio since I was 6 years old.) People think I have some sort of privilege because I’m white (even though people confuse me for being Spanish and I’ve been called a spick before.). I’m called a racist at the drop of the hat, and blacks always say that they can’t be racist cause they are not white. Being racist is not only a white thing.
Look at the Black Panther group or the Black Muslim group. Also why is it ok for a black person to call a white person a cracker, a snow princess, white trash ect? Why after all these years just because I’m white my ancestors are blamed for the whole slavery thing? My family moved here about 65 years ago because of the things that were going on in Poland, and by grandfather’s family came over from Ireland during the potato famine. Oh and people think it’s ok to call me a Mick/Polack.
People think I can’t handle spicy food. People think I love Starbucks and frozen yogurt and go out for it often (when people take me out for it and I don’t know what to get or when it comes to frozen yogurt places what to do/how it works, I get stared at weird because I’m a “White Girl”.). People try bribing me with qdoba and chipotle and when I tell them I hate the food and never go their of my own free will I get looked at weird and have literally had people be like “but your a white girl”… it’s like what’s your point… I don’t associate who I am with the color of my skin so why is it ok for others to do so?
Thomas R Gerbasi,
Lewiston, NY
I’m Sicilian-American. Both sides of my family came to the USA in 1890s The KKK burned a cross on my Grandfather’s lawn. As a teenager, they offered my father twice what he paid for his home to move out because a “non-white” family in the neighborhood would “lower the property values.” Folks see my name on a name tag and compliment me on my ability to speak English. Yet for the purposes of surveys, I am asked to identify myself as either “white” or (incredibly) “Anglo” (even though there is not a drop of Anglo-Saxon blood in my heritage).
Carol Zachary,
Washington, D.C.–and Montana.
Somehow I kept blocking on three things: A) the six words. . . grandfather, poker, three hangings, an invitation lost for almost 60 years, and my changed perceptions;
B ) the fact that I’ve felt I should know exactly what evidence was presented against the men who were hanged; and C) the lingering question–did my grandfather’s actions help direct me toward family history, or did he see something in me that told him I would cherish his “gift” and do something with it, or was it just the only unique thing he could give a grandchild for winning at nine-card stud. When I finally realized I needn’t answer “B” and “C,” at least not for your project, then I got to “A.”
Listen to Carol Zachary’s story on NPR’s Morning Edition.
Thomas Williamson,
Cool Valley, MO
Born the end of 1949, traveled throughout the country, changed schools every year, in D.C. when Dr. King was killed, experienced racism from both sides, married to oriental & 2 sisters, had to teach my black grand babies about the Tuskegee Airmen, missed a lot of African-American, Oriental & Latino history in schools.
Robin Shudak,
Wilkes-Barre, PA
Both sides of my family are Polish, who escaped from Poland the rise of fascism.
Their destination: the US.
My maternal grandfather’s family, who were Jewish, were denied entry.
My paternal grandfather’s family, who were fleeing because they were caught as part of the resistance and his brother was already “sent to Germany,” were also denied entry.
No refugee status or asylum.
But they got in, because to return was death.
Both families, now without homes or countries, thought they could hide out here until the war was over. but the Soviet takeover of Poland made that impossible.
So, as a little girl in the 1980s, I was called a Communist by teachers, and severely disciplined for speaking Polish (which everyone thought was Russian).
Now, we have the opportunity to move back, and are considering it.
Because in our experience, we believe American whiteness also has a pecking order. In our experience, unless you’re a Daughter of the American Revolution or some other vintage of “heroes,” that formed this country or towns in it, you are looked down on.
I can’t even imagine how much worse it is when your ethnicity is on full display, and not just in your last name.
Sheli Turner,
Los Angeles, CA
While I am now a biracial 62 year old woman, who bore living witness to the difficulties my parents had in this country due to their marriage, this means less and less to my sons who are now marrying, and will also have mixed-race children by default. What “race” will these children be as their Black DNA is further mixed with other wonderful characteristics reflective of their mothers? My grandchildren will still be wonderfully human, just like me. And I will carry their legacy, just as my grandmothers and grandfathers did for me. They will always be able to claim their heritage with love and great pride.
Patricia Hughes,
Lake Arrowhead, CA.
My father’s father took the long route of immigration from Greece during the political upheavals occurring in the early part of the 20th century, and later sent for his family. My father and some of his siblings were born in America. Growing up extremely poor in Denver, Colorado, my father was determined to excel both in education and sports (he was a champion wrestler), and to serve his country as a United States Marine in WWII. Post-war, he earned his degree, and became an elementary teacher in America’s public schools. Then, he literally followed a dream to marry my mother. My mother’s lineage traces back to European royal lines.
Mom and Dad only ever wanted us to “be Americans” and to “assimilate.” Although we love Greek food and culture, we did not, as children, learn the Greek language or continue in the Greek church. It’s interesting to note that my “white” mother was not accepted by my Greek grandfather, for quite some time!
All of us kids grew up in small-town America: Southern California. I chose to follow my father’s path, and became a teacher. I am concluding my own long career in public education, having served the needs of our “ever-immigrant” nation.
We are all immigrants.
Susan Mitschke Ccott,
Olivenhain, CA
Grandfather Mitschke came to America through Ellis Island. He learned English and acclimated into the USA society. My great grandfather on dad’s side also came to America from Germany and ended up in Olivenhain California… Adam Wiegand
Sam,
Morris, MN.
I have a grandfather that is fully Native American, from the White Earth Tribe. So my mother is ¼ Native American, and I am less than ¼. My father is mostly German. So I have fairly light skin, and my hair is light brown. In most situations I consider myself Caucasian and others just assume that I am Caucasian, because of my skin tone. However, when I told two of my male friends that I am partly Indian, their response was “With Dot or Feather?”. I was kind of surprised by the bluntness of their question, but I guess that since we are close friends they felt comfortable asking and they probably wouldn’t have asked that question to a complete stranger. In response, I just said “with feather.”
Ronnie Dunn,
Cleveland, OH
My family was the third African American family to move on my street, Gay Avenue, on Cleveland’s Eastside in 1964. I was three years old and the youngest of three children. My siblings, a sister and brother, respectively and four years older than I, had already started school. The grandchildren, a boy and girl, of our kind, elderly white neighbors to the left of us became my first playmates outside of the home. Their parents, as well as their uncle and his wife, lived in the home with their grandparents. One spring day in 1965 as my mom did laundry in our basement and myself and my white playmates were playing and climbing in the plumb tree in their backyard, their aunt raised a window in the back of the house and called for them to “come in the house and don’t ever let me catch you playing with that N-word again!” They climbed down from the tree confused and went into the house. I stayed there sitting in the tree for what must of been several minutes not grasping what happened and that they were not coming back out to play. Realizing they weren’t, I climbed down from the tree, crossing to my backyard and rang the side doorbell. I could see my mother at the bottom of the basement steps as she looked up through the screen door and saw me standing there. As she came up the stairs and unlocked the door, she asked, “why are you coming in the house?” I fumbled over the words as I tried to explain to her what had occurred and what my playmates aunt had said. A somber expression came over my mother as she bent down to pick me up and carried me into our living room and sat me in her lap as we sat in my dad’s favorite recliner. She reached down next to the chair and picked up a volume of a children’s bible stories set of books that was placed next to the chair in a small wood bookcase. On the cover of this book was a picture of the typical European image of Jesus found in the West sitting on a large rock surrounded by multiracial children of various nationalities and my mother used this to teach me about race and to explain to me how some people think they are better than others based on the color of their skin. She told me that no one was any better than I am. That was my introduction to the concept of race and racism, a lesson that I was force to learn before I even started kindergarten. I never played with my playmates again, and seemingly in a relatively short time, the family moved from the neighborhood. I started school the next year and my kindergarten class as probably 60% white but by the time I was in the third-grade my school was more than 95% black.
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