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I confront my racist thoughts daily.

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Karen Polis,
Long Beach, CA

I am a 59-year-old white woman who grew up in a well-to-do suburb of Washington, DC. I wasn’t aware of the racist conditioning I grew up with until I became a Los Angeles Public Defender in 1990. I have since had numerous jobs in the criminal justice system, all of which dealt with the needs of the Black community. I after the 2016 election, I went back to school full-time at Howard university. I got a Masters of Social Work. I chose Howard so that I could work on issues of race. I am now a licensed independent clinical social worker. I am practicing law as a Los Angeles Public Defender again, and providing teletherapy for a handful of Black clients in the Washington, DC public health system. I have never told a Black person that racist thoughts pop into my head every day. They are thoughts that stem from TV, commercials, attitudes, the news, etc. growing up in the 60s and 70s. Fortunately, I race was a neutral issue in my household. Still, the conditioning was very strong. When the racist thoughts pop into my head, I swat them away, sometimes 10 times in a minute. They are thoughts of judgment, lesser than, distrust. Are used to go through the process of looking at the thought, questioning it, immediately, concluding that that is not my value or feelings about the Black community. Today the process is much quicker. By repeatedly confronting the racist thoughts, my mind now nimbly swats them away. I’ve had this conversation with white people. I say that the difference between me and a member of the KKK is that I don’t believe my thoughts while they do. The more time I spend with Black people, the less the thoughts pop up I cannot control the thought coming into my mind, but I can control the thought that comes after that. I do not like these thoughts. They are extraordinarily uncomfortable. I don’t feel white guilt about having the thoughts because I understand that it comes from conditioning, not me. I also have thoughts about body size that stem from my conditioning as a competitive gymnast in the 70s. That said, the racist thoughts interfere with my peace. They feel bad. They feel angry and judgmental and demeaning and condescending. I feel yicky when I feel that way. Some people may feel empowered or strong when feeling superior. But it drains my peace when I feel judgmental. Being pelted with racist thoughts from within me feels like a lesser degree of hearing racist thoughts from other people. I’ve slowed down, my thinking enough that I can watch the thought come up, swat it away, new thought, back hand it, over and over again. It’s like playing tennis at Wimbledon where are the racist thoughts are lobbed against me from my subconscious brain, and returned to the server by my conscious brain. Only I’m not playing another person, but an infatigible ball machine fueled by 400 years of racist thinking. My family came to this country from Greece 100 years ago. Yet I have been conditioned by 400 years of American racism. At the Howard School of Social Work, we focused on the Black Perspective and were consciously challenged to look at our hidden feelings (e.g.: populations we would have trouble serving). I have taken that task to heart. I have four hour long conversations with an African-American friend of mine, who is a lawyer and a sneaker geek. We talk about issues of race and the world in a unique way. We have both bought microphones to start a podcast that we’ve been talking about for years. Our conversations talk about our varied experiences that always land us back in the middle. I am saving a copy of this in hopes that I will have the courage to share it with her in one of our talks. I am not there today. How do I tell a dear friend that tiny racist voices blather in my ear when we talk (sometimes)? Does it matter that I tune the voices out? That I don’t listen to them? Or is the point that my brain generates the racist thoughts at all? Hey, maybe she has racist thoughts about me when we talk? Wouldn’t that be grand. Now that would be an interesting conversation. How 2 friends silence the involuntary racist thoughts about one another and our communities, and more importantly, talk openly about it. Thank you for this opening. Best of luck with the project! KP

Rejected because love is colorblind.

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Paula Morris,
Long Beach, CA.

A white girl growing up in Orange County, CA, where I was anything and anyone “different” was “bad”, I have found love with two wonderful men in my life: the first one (who died) was African American, and the second one is African. The happiness both have brought me is too threatening for my family; my brother can barely stand to look at me.

Am I Asian enough for you?

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Emily P,
Long Beach, CA

I am an Asian American that fell along the lines of a “model minority.” I was a straight-A student in high school and was in the orchestra for 8 years. Though people still assumed I was “whitewashed” or too “American.” I always thought about what it was that made me more “Asian.” Those who just perceived me from the outside just assumed I was whitewashed based on the clothes I wore and my proper English. I am currently a student at Chapman University and feel that I am still being looked at with a certain stereotype, especially with its lack of diversity.

Chapman University

Mexican-American, But No Hablo Espanol

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me_and_gmaVincent Yanez,
Long Beach, CA.

For as long as I remember my mother, and myself as I got older, was given a very hard time from people in our neighborhood and some family members about my little sister, little brother, and I not being able to speak Spanish. My mother and father both grew up with the language prevalent in their households and among their peers. I learned the basics growing up, but never enough to communicate. The topic came up one evening after school. I had gone to school that morning and was ready for my first day back after break, when I was pulled out of class by a lady I had never meet before. She said she was with the ESL department and we were gonna play some games. She then proceeded to flip through a bunch of flash cards with words on them I didn’t understand. “gordo” she said, pointing to the fat man on the card. “flaco” she said, pointing to the tall,skinny man next to him. I told her that I didn’t understand anything she was saying and that I didn’t speak Spanish. “you don’t speak Spanish Mr.Yañez?’ I remember her asking me with the grossest look on her face and it made me ashamed for the first time because she made me feel as if my tongue had betrayed my face and name.

I have since felt this same sting many times as I got older, but that night I went home and asked my mom why I didn’t know the language. She told me about my grandmother trying to learn English when her and her family moved to the Central Valley. My mother learning English from TV and school and taught my grandmother after work. My mom told me how hard it was for my grandmother to learn and understand English. For my mother and Grandmother Spanish was 1st language, English a close second, and she wanted the reverse for me.

Now that I’m older, I’ve faced a lot of ridicule for “checking” the Hispanic box. I don’t look of Mexican descent, I don’t sound Mexican when I speak the language, and I’ve only been to Mexico once. I understand Spanish very well and have been called “white washed”, “white boy”, or the worst “pocho” which translates roughly to white trying to act Mexican or vice-versa.
My children will know their heritage and be proud to be Mexican-American. Regardless of what nationality their mother will be, my kids will know about the struggles of their migrant farm working great-grandmother who marched with Cesar Chavez in Selma, and their grandmother who was the first in our family to graduate college and raised 3 kids who did or are in the process of doing the same. My skin is light, but my blood is brown (figuratively), “¡ Viva La Raza!”

“Act like you’ve been here before.”

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Jessica Johnson,
Long Beach, CA.

My grandparents took pride in not being a “typical” black family. I grew up in Prince George’s County, MD (about 10mins outside of the nation’s capital) which is home to the largest number of middle class black families in the United States. But outside of my community, I noticed even at a young age that when I traveled (four trips to Europe and twice across the continental U.S.) , attended music enrichment programs (private flute lessons for 15years) and sat in our annual seats at the theater (as a “Performing Arts” Coordinator she created a partnership with the Kennedy Center), there were very few black faces other than my family. And no matter how new or amazing the experience, my Grandmother never wanted us to show our amazement until we were leaving the function. This was her reasoning:

‘They expect that black people have never seen anything or been anywhere. I’m raising you to be well-rounded, so act like you’ve been here before.”

As a child I thought she just didn’t want me to have fun, but when I recall my childhood experiences to others, I’m met with amazement and sometimes skepticism because “black people don’t do that.” So now I understand.

Fighting against being stereotyped.

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Nichole Wesson,
Long Beach, CA.

I grew up what I believed to be middle-class in Dallas. I attended private, Catholic schools from kindergarten through 12-grade high school graduation. My high school class was 1/3 African-American, 1/3 white, 1/3 Mexican/Hispanic/Latino. I have done well in my career and recently returned to school to get my B.A. degree.

Nevertheless, I am stereotyped. Because I am African-American I must be (fill in the blank). As an African-American I should know (fill in the blank). Or, because I am African-American it is OK to discriminate against me.

As an African-American I feel I have to be prepared to fight against or be prepared for discriminatory treatment. I think about what to do if a police officer stops me. I remember being discriminated against trying to get an apartment in the Bay Area. I know what it is like to be disregarded and dismissed as I wait for service in a restaurant. I have experienced someone following me around a department store because they thought I would still something when all I wanted was to buy a handbag.

I, like so many other African-Americans, can see myself as the victim in the many incidents that have been so prevalent of late. I understand the importance of the Black Lives Matter movement in response to the killing by police officers of unarmed African-American men and women. I have witnessed the increase of prejudice and discrimination against all minority groups. I read the racist comments in social media and online media sites, some from people I thought I knew because I worked with them. I can’t help thinking about the vicious murders of African-Americans attending a prayer meeting at a church in South Carolina because of the murderer’s racist beliefs when I go to church.

I feel a responsibility to represent my cultural group at church to a population that may not see African-Americans in a positive light. I believe many have limited exposure to African-Americans probably only at work but never get to know African-Americans on a personal level especially seeing the demographic of African-Americans in Orange County is less than 2% (according to Census Reporter). I feel a responsibility to help change the narrative. I feel it is important to teach people why these issues and how these issues affect us. Plus, these issues affecting African-Americans are not one people groups’ issues. They affect our society and communities.

Sometimes I forget I’m not white

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Darshi Balasuriya
Long Beach, CA

I spend my days mostly in Orange County California. I live in this white world and often see myself in the reflection of those whom I love and enjoy the company of. I rarely think about color of skin or race. But occasionally I encounter treatment from others that doesn’t align with my world view. This is when the jarrign happens and forces me to see myself from the outsider’s point of view. Yes, my skin is brown, I look typically south asian. I am not white. they are not like me on the outside. We are suddenly separated from the color of our skin rather than that which I see when I look into my husband’s beautiful eyes.

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