6 words is obviously limiting. However, my 6 reflect my own experience growing up as one of the few white kids in my local public schools. It was an education being constantly in the minority (in school, outside of those walls, I was comfortably back in a white affluent world) and one that more people with white skin privilege need to go through. It breed empathy, understanding, and a full 360 degree view of people from outside your own background. You get the good, the bad, and the ugly. It made me better at dealing with difference and better at interrogating my own prejudices, internalized racism, and privilege. It wasn’t sufficient to make me struggle for racial justice, but it was, for me, a necessary component for striding that path. And that’s why I picked my 6 words. Because people with white skin privilege need to experience being the only one more often. It won’t be sufficient to build the political will to change the institutional racism in our various national systems and culture, but it is necessary to help build the shared experience necessary to have an honest conversation about getting there.
p>The older I get the clearer I see how White Supremacy +/or White Privilege is expressed in others including people of global majority and of course White people. I surprise myself in how naive I am still as I approach my 7th hour, especially when it comes to how much personal work we all need to do to get past these internal barriers. How little empathy we all have for the other when we discover the chink in the armor. Race + Identity in American can be painful and lonely at times.
It is extremely difficult for those in the Majority to understand the grinding reality of our structural Racism. Few people have the imagination to place themselves in the lives of others, and even fewer seem to have the willingness to do so. The great bulk of the Majority just doesn’t “get” how hard it is to be a member of the hated, diminished, or feared Minority. Participating in an activity (cycling in this case) where a significant fraction of the people you encounter dislike you on sight can be extremely instructive, especially if you are willing to think about your part-time experience as a model for what others must endure 24 hours a day.
We moved to St. Louis, MO about 6 years ago after living in Hawaii and the west coast. The topic of race and prejudice came up in a dinner conversation with our children; at the time, they were in middle and elementary schools. We were discussing whether or not they had any experience with feeling prejudice or inferior in school because of their skin color and ethnic heritage. We are Filipino-American and we live in a large suburb of St. Louis where the majority of residents are Caucasian. Both kids honestly felt they were equals to their peers and friends. But our eldest, who was probably 11 at the time, acknowledged she was physically different from her classmates and frankly said, “Mom, if I can make an analogy, we are like brown flecks on a white tortilla.”
I grew up in a majority neighborhood during the eighties and nineties. There were only a few other minority families in the area at the time. It wasn’t until college after high school graduation I learn I was black and highly disliked based on the color of my skin and not the content of my character.
As the months turn into years I find myself melancholy how the media, and Hollywood describes blacks. It disturbs me when Caucasians clutch their bags, lock their car doors and cower in fear in the back of elevators when they see my smile. I’m unsure if they understand the problems they cause with simple actions. I’m even less sure they comprehend that once upon a time when we were adolescence we all played together.
It’s too bad that in 2012 we still haven’t passed our underlying fear, feelings and race relations. I was convinced we overcame this point in time until the 2008 election. It was at that point when I learned the true feelings of my Caucasian co-workers concerning Barack Obama. I was unclear if the hatred was based on politics or something more sinister?
My feelings regarding race relations will always remain the same. I believe we are all children of God, creative equally and just. I believe uneducated resentment is unfortunate side bar in our wonderful countries past. I urge those who do find themselves filled with rage and anger toward different nationalities to step outside of comfort zones and explore each other’s cultures they may be surprised what we all have in common….
Wouldn’t it be great not to be judged by the color of your skin wow… Now there’s a thought….
Even after living in Hawaii over 25 years (moved for employment – my husband was recruited for a hard to fill position in health care, and I have worked for two prominent Hawaii organizations), I still encounter people assuming I do not live here, and asking, “How are you enjoying your visit?” Also other examples of being seen as an outsider, when using the local park where we live 2 blocks away, we often experience the vibe, “Why are you using our public spaces?” from other folks who drive in from other neighborhoods. It has been very eye opening with the tables turned from when we lived on the East Coast as part of the majority. Have honed my humility and empathy.
I read a sample of 9 race cards in On Wisconsin magazine. There were messages from those in the minority and those in the majority. These were those individuals’ truths and everyone felt betrayed in some way. Maybe if we accepted the fact that we all feel alone, we might come to accept each others’ truths.
More often than not, minorities are running a race against each other, to see who wins the “most tragic history” ribbon. Who is more deserving of equality. In some way or another, most of us come from a history of wars, holocaust, slavery, escape, discrimination, abuse, you name it…
It is time for race to stop being a race with one another. Everyone is worthy of equal opportunities. Race is a race we win together. When minorities work together, we become the majority.
I was a paralegal at a large firm and the partners knew I was applying to law school. When a sicilian American partner found out that I was accepted to Northwestern University School of law he said, “The headlines will say, ‘Ghetto Girl Makes Good!” He meant that as a compliment. Even though I grew up in majority black neighborhoods, went ot majority black public schools, I never considered myself as coming from the Ghetto.
Don’t believe the hype. The press baits everyone. Stirring the pot gets more clicks which makes money. The pols benefit from a nation divided too. Realize the vast majority of America is somewhere in the middle of these extremes.
Here are six I heard so many times I can’t even count them. They came in various themes on being a “honky” or “f*****” or “dumba**.” They weren’t intended to provoke, to share hatred, and to demonstrate power. They were repetitively used by many people, my peers at my high school (a majority African American high school in the St. Louis metro area) in the early 1980s. I was in the minority, and I am Caucasian. There really has been no Race Card story I have heard on your show that highlights that racism is a two-way street that can sometimes impact groups in ways that flip the conversation. I have not really heard a very hard conversation that no group, regardless of their race, is immune from this problem that is universal in scape and human at its core. (For reference, I reference Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, where he states that sometimes those in the prison could be the cruelest and those who were guards were not all evil, as a way of framing the universality of choices made by all of us, every day, to do good or bad.) Maybe you will take this on. I can assure I was not the only one who was baited with hateful words and a lot more. But that’s called life, and no one said it was supposed to be without challenges. The trick is to master your response to these challenges and grow. So, here’s a chance for the Race Card Project to grow. Enjoy your work and keep it up.
It appears that minoritized groups are constantly trying to explain race to be understood by the “majority.” I hasten the day when minoritzed groups do not need to be validated or prove they are good enough or just as good as the “majority.”
We don’t live in a post-racial society. We live in a post-race society. We live in a country where in a short amount of time, there will no longer be a majority race. And race is continuing to be reshaped and redefined. I am half Chinese and half Puerto Rican. I live in Boston, and I see dozens and dozens of couples of white men and Asian women. The half Asian community it doubling by the decade. There are so many Black and Latino families in this country as well. Race is not real. It is malleable. Racism is real. It’s pervasive and inside all of us. When people ask me where I’m really from, they are saying that I am not really American. Even though I’m second generation on both sides and can really only speak English, I do not look like an authentic American. I am part of the other American. The new American. And no matter how many racist cops kill people of color or disenfranchise communities, we’re still going to be around. It’s time to not only reform the system but redefine what it is to be black, Latino, Asian, and in the end, American.
Therefore, being 25% black (one black grandparent) does not equal “being black”.
I say this because I’m fed up of being told I’m crazy, or getting looks because I’m 25% black AND IDENTIFY AS WHITE.
Guess what? My kids are white; I’m not a different race from them. I gave birth to them, they share my genetics.
What’s sad is the fact that I’ve heard such ignorant things directed at us, such as: “that’s not her mother, she’s what you call an au pair” “oh, is he an albino black kid?” “She looks just like her brother!!” “Oh, you’re the mother? They must look like their father, then”
I will never identify as black, because I’m not culturally or even really racially black. And honestly, I don’t have any connection or desire to connect with blacks.
I grew up in an upper middle class white home and never thought I wasn’t mixed or culturally white/European, so…
I am who I am. If it’s becoming more accepted to be trans*, then it should be accepted that I’m a mixed white person.
I was in my teens before it occurred to me that Band-Aids are made to match the skin of the White majority. That’s a trivial example of White privilege, but a telling one.
What’s in a Name? The Poetry Question-Discovering the Relevance of Words
As a white male, a majority of majorities, I can’t talk about race. I’m not qualified to.
Race isn’t an issue for me, right? Life is easy; things are handed to me. My cup runneth over and my invisible knapsack is packed.
But isn’t hiding behind the privilege of my race just as debilitating as hiding behind the stereotypes of another? Isn’t an implied guilt based on race a form of racism?
So tell me again how great it is to be white as I reapply my sunscreen, struggle to execute even the most basic two-step, and consistently wind up on the wrong side of history…
My personal experiences with race can really only be boiled down to two stereotypes. One, the aforementioned white privilege I was granted at birth, and two, my name.
What could a name possibly have to do with race? Good question. What’s in a name? Better question.
Whether we like it or not, whether we admit it or not, our names are our first labels. More than ever, in today’s world, our names are our representatives we send forward to meet people prior to face to face- whether by email, text message, an electronic application, match dot com, or the increasingly rare phone call. What’s in a name? A lot.
The Poetry Question Discovering the Relevance of Words http://thepoetryquestion.com/
My name is Jamaal; I’m white.
Growing up I never thought twice about my name (of course I was next door to a commune, hanging out with Orly, Oshia, Lark Song, River Rocks, Sky Blue, and more than one Rainbow).
In a high school soccer game I was called “a white man with a [horrific racial expletive deleted] name”.
In January of 2002 I flew to London. I was randomly selected for additional passenger screening. It was me, Muhammad, Abdul, Tariq, and an old white haired lady named Jenny Smith. Seriously. I’m not sure what was faster, Jenny Smith’s pat down or the dropping of the TSA agent’s face when I responded to the name Jamaal.
When I went to a time share presentation in Vegas (just to tell them no and get my free show tickets of course), the randomly selected sales agent who came calling my name looked was a bald version of Cedric the Entertainer in a white suit, Versace sunglasses, and alligator shoes.
The most frequently asked question is, “how did you get the name Jamaal?” I usually say something about a Ouija board or a heated game of Boggle that put my mother into labor. The letters just sort of fell randomly in that order. “How did you get the name Jamaal?” Well, it all started many years ago before the Coyote howled at the moon…
I got my name the same way you did. Somewhere between birth and leaving the hospital my parents wrote it on my birth certificate.
I know what people want to say. They want to stammer like the South African from Lethal Weapon 2 and say, “but… but… but… you’re WHITE.”
But they don’t.
Instead they say things like, “I never would’ve guessed your name was Jamaal.” Really, are you frequently good at guessing people’s names?
“You don’t look like a Jamaal.” And how exactly does one look like a name? Unless your name is Rose and you are overly-rubicund it’s highly unlikely you look like your name either. What if I smile larger, now do I look like a Jamaal or is this more of a Derek smile? How does a Walter express confusion, should I raise my eyebrow higher?
When people have seen my name before they’ve seen my face, I get “OH – you’re Jamaal.” Yes, I am, and the African American behind me is Chris.
It is not uncommon for people to follow up with, “I expected you to be –”and then there’s a pause; a sudden realization they are on the verge of sounding racist. There’s a look—not quite ‘deer in the headlights’, but it is a definite freeze. What to say next? I’ve heard several: taller, older, different (usually accompanied with an uncomfortable chuckle).
Very few people have the courage to say darker.
Several people have told me that Jamaal is a black name. It’s not. It’s an Arabic name. Arabic is a language, not a color.
Halfway through my first year teaching, the principal who had hired me confided that I was lucky to have gotten the job. I agreed, I had watched a majority of my classmates from grad school go from job fair to job fair and interview to interview, whereas I had been able to parlay my student-teaching directly into a job in the same school with only one interview.
That wasn’t what he meant. They had not been planning to take another student-teacher when my application showed up. But, in his words, as he scanned through it and saw a Jamaal who plays basketball and counts Muhammad Ali among his heroes he thought, we could use a little diversity.
Sorry to disappoint you.
So, no, as a white man, a majority of majorities, from a small rural town in Southern Oregon with a high school of around 400 and two black and two Hispanic families, I don’t know a lot about race. I do, however, know a little about stereotyping.
Indulge in timeless elegance with our hand-curated collection of luxury vintage men’s fashion. From classic suits to iconic accessories, our online store offers a premium shopping experience for the modern gentleman who appreciates quality and style. Shop now and elevate your wardrobe with our carefully selected pieces that celebrate the art of craftsmanship and heritage fashion.
Nathan Henderson-James,
