White wife sixties Chicago eyes opened
Gail Howard,
Redding, CT
My memoir, White Wife/Blue Baby, examines how I at least partially unlearned racism marrying across the 1968 Chicago color line and caring for our gorgeous, vivid, fragile baby girl.
Orphaned, Mother, Autism, Lover, Peaceful, Powerful
Caitlin Church,
Clinton, IA
I am a 29 year old 1st generation 1st year college student at EICC. I have overcame a lot of obstacles in my life and experienced more loss than most people my age. I don’t have very many people in my corner but I know my child and my amazing finance always will be. I have to be strong for her, she is a person with Autism so she needs me for more than an average child needs a parent, and will continue to need me in this capacity for the rest of my life. Life can be messy but it always has a way of working itself out.
“You remind me of my mother.”
Susan Boyer,
Decatur, GA.
These words were spoken to me by a young black waiter. I’m an old white woman. “We got a connection”, he said. And I felt it. I was so touched by his generosity of spirit. I walk around my diverse city, aware of my racist culture and upbringing and practice looking at folk who don’t look like me thinking “There goes Jesus, incarnate again.” I have to work at letting my prejudice go. But for this young man, it just came naturally. He was a blessing to me and I’m grateful.
White mother afraid for her children
Sally,
Poughquag, NY.
Grown through, what I’ve been through
Mackenzie McLean,
Addison, NY
Through every obstacle I’ve faced, big or small I always remember that it won’t last forever, and in the end I want to come out on the up side to whatever the issue is. My mom has always said to me “grow through what you go through” every decision I make is for personal growth, and as a permanent reminder I tattooed the quoted onto my side.
Unconditionally loving my transgender biracial children!
Angel Smith,
Grayson, GA
I am a mother of two young adult transgender, biracial children. Some ask me how I can be so unconditionally supportive and loving of their lifestyles. So many of our youth falls into the wrong paths of drugs, crime, gangs, violence, teen pregnancy, etc. If THIS is the “worse” my children brought me, then I am the one who is blessed because they made parenting easy. They are amazing young adults, one has a BA, works a full time job and teaches children and their teachers art lessons in Nepal online. The other is a successful lab technician for a leading vision provider. I could not be prouder of the success they worked so hard to earn for themselves. Different is not always bad. Take time to learn and understand the things you aren’t exposed too before passing judgement. Differences make us all unique and beautiful.
Do you have a foreign name too?
Akira Uchimura,
Outside USA.
I was born in Costa Rica, raised in Paraguay, Ecuador, Bolivia, El Salvador, Suriname, Japan and Chile (3 to 4 years in each country). I didn’t notice any difference between my friends and I until the
“So where are you from”
“Do you have a foreign name too?” and
“Where did you grow up?”
started popping up a lot since I was 13. My sister was born in Paraguay and my brother in Bolivia. My father is Japanese and my mother is Chilean so imagine how I need to respond to these questions.
Normally I give a full explanation, which takes about 2 minutes and give a short one if I am tired, but I don’t mind because the person is asking out of curiosity and wants to learn more about me.
But I also notice that with questions like “do you have a foreign name too?”, people usually want to have a more exotic explanation of who they see in front of them. Depending on what I wear or how I act that day, I can be more Japanese or more “latino”, meaning that I can camouflage to a full “national” sometimes so when I start to speak, the person tries to look for that foreign part of me. During my teens, it was something that bothered me so much. I had found out that I am a foreigner wherever I went. I was a Latino or gaijin in Japan, and a “Chino” or “Japones” in Latin America, and a Hawaiian or Native American in the United States.
But after a while I also noticed that I had a choice. To see this difference as a negative thing, or to see it as a great potential to become the bridge between my two cultures. I chose se second one and feel very good every time I have to explain Japan to Latin Americans or American Latina to the Japanese.
Looking at this website and on so many half, double, mixed roots groups on facebook, I see that we are many now and the numbers will go higher and higher, until we all become beige regarding to skin color, but to understand cultures and ideas of “foreign lands” I think we are the ones that can best do it if we want to and am making this my life goal.
That is why we started an organization called Nikkei Youth Network and a crowdfunding site called Samuraidea, but that is another story.
Father’s reflection, mother’s renewed hope, transformation
Christina Mayes,
Richmond, CA.
The constant revolving question in my life is, “What are you?” Let’s take care of this question now. My father is Peruvian and my mother is Irish-Italian. My father left when I was three, so for most of my life I felt like he left me with no culture or language. My brown skin did not appear to be a reflection of my mother. As a child I remember questioning her if she truly was my mother. When with her I felt a need to prove I was hers when others looked on. My mother has fair skin and large blue eyes. I envied her characteristics. She tried to assure me that I was beautiful in my own way.
Growing up with the last name “Jimenez” was challenging. Many teachers mispronounced my name and people expected that I spoke Spanish. Whenever I failed to speak Spanish or not meet other expectations such as being Chinese, Japanese, or Filipino because of my small eyes, I always had a sense that people just weren’t really seeing me. I was a constant reflection an reminder of a father who left his child without a clear understanding of what being Peruvian meant.
As it got older I began to appreciate the wonder and thought how amazing that I get to live in a world of blurred lines. My multicultural background is actually a gift. This acceptance of my identity embraced my mothers side of being third generation San Franciscan. Renewing my sense of self in terms of growing up in Berkeley, CA – a true Bay Area native. I felt recharged on life, but also determined to learn more about my fathers side and Peruvian history/culture.
This year my husband and I went on our honeymoon to Peru with my university. On this field biology class trip, I participated as a staff member among the students and faculty. Hidden away was my secret of this being a long overdue heritage trip. My husband held my hand as I cried on the bus through Lima, Peru. I knew that these were the streets that had taken my father two years again in a fatal car accident.
We saw the capital and then traveled the Amazon River. When stopping back in Lima I took a chance and reached out to my younger half brother I had never spoken to or met. You see, my father had a family before me creating a older half sister who is full Peruvian (speaks Spanish, raised in Petaluma, CA) and a younger half brother who is full Peruvian (speaks Spanish, raised in La Molina, Peru). I left a cryptic voice mail in Spanish for my brother who then quickly called me back. His voice was the sound of my father and he spoke excellent English.
We met that day. I had never been so nervous. I didn’t know what to expect and neither did he. When he walked in at. a height of 6’3” – I couldn’t believe it. We hugged, laughed, and cried. I never thought I would meet him in this life. I thought he would be a distant past like my father. I asked if our father was tall and he laughed and said yes. Turns out my 22 year old brother is a college rugby player in his last year of college stud eying international business. As a college advisor for his age group, it seemed oddly kismet as we launched in conversation. I understood exactly where he was in life and he had a greater understanding of where I was.
My brother is older than his years. Our father left him at three as well. We lived parallel lives constantly asking who we were. It’s much more than race.
He share with me that he learned our father was originally from the Amazon. He also shared that he forgave him. I knew as well in my heart that I agreed with this forgiveness and realized it wasn’t the history or culture that I desperately needed, but family. My brothers love is unreal.
All this time I hogue to was in search of myself, but it was actually the connection to another who would fully understand this internal longing of understanding.
As I stood atop Machu Picchu with my husband, I felt so alive and at peace. I thought of my brother and I wished I could be with him. He too is a reflection of our father. I could see clearly the value of what’s so important in life.
My mother has always been my angel in life. I see her as the strongest woman I know. I see her in my face more and more. It’s hard to believe I had once questioned that. Identify and self development can be difficult for those with an unclear family line. When someone asks, “What are you?” I say be bold and true. The conversations that follow are worth the time and educating others.
Guilt. I loved my Annie so.
Lisa VonTress Las,
Sunrise, FL.
As a child growing up in the DC suburbs, I had no idea about what was going on. I had Annie, who was with my family 6 years before I was born until I was 13 when my father moved us. I came back to her later as she worked part-time for my aunt in Reston, VA. My mother died when I was nine but I always had Annie. I would go to her apartment in NE DC by cab and have to be walked up to her apartment because it was so dangerous. But she would fix me my favorite meal, seashells and clams (and black olives) and fried chicken. I loved her so much and she loved me, she had no children. The race thing never entered my mind; that is I did not care what color she was, she loved me when it seemed a lot of people did not. I don’t remember ever worrying about her race, I just loved her.
Your family isn’t your “real” family
Anonymous,
Des Moiones, IA.
Drake University
This is what my mom was told in 1954 when social services came into her home and removed her and all of her siblings from her mom. At that time they were truly poor and were having a hard time finding enough food to eat. Her mother had a dysfunctional relationship with her husband and her younger children did have different fathers. My mom’s father was black. All of her older siblings were white and her two youngest siblings had a hispanic father. My mom did not realize that she was racially different from her siblings until the State of Iowa told her “that they were going to find her real family”. Four of her siblings were able to stay together the twins were adopted by family and her two brothers directly under her were adopted together. Over time, my grandmother did regain custody of three of the 8 children that were taken by the state once she married the hispanic man who was the father of her two youngest children. My mom however, was in an orphanage waiting for her real family. She did have occasional visits with her family until she was sent to live with the THomas Family who were and respectable, and black. My mom did not know that her siblings missed never stopped looking for their sister. It took 40 years but in 1994 my mom was reunited with her “Real” Family.
Your family isn’t your “real” family
Anonymous,
Des Moiones, IA.
Drake University
This is what my mom was told in 1954 when social services came into her home and removed her and all of her siblings from her mom. At that time they were truly poor and were having a hard time finding enough food to eat. Her mother had a dysfunctional relationship with her husband and her younger children did have different fathers. My mom’s father was black. All of her older siblings were white and her two youngest siblings had a hispanic father. My mom did not realize that she was racially different from her siblings until the State of Iowa told her “that they were going to find her real family”. Four of her siblings were able to stay together the twins were adopted by family and her two brothers directly under her were adopted together. Over time, my grandmother did regain custody of three of the 8 children that were taken by the state once she married the hispanic man who was the father of her two youngest children. My mom however, was in an orphanage waiting for her real family. She did have occasional visits with her family until she was sent to live with the THomas Family who were and respectable, and black. My mom did not know that her siblings missed never stopped looking for their sister. It took 40 years but in 1994 my mom was reunited with her “Real” Family.
More colors more stories more gratitude
Penny Shaff Altman,
Portland, ME.
My father told me stories drawn from his childhood in the Ukraine. My mother told me stories about her life growing up as a Jewish immigrant. I told stories to my children. I tell them to my grandchildren. My youngest grandson’s great grandmother is famous for her stories of Gullah Gitchee and West African heritage and the history of her island. We are richer for being part of different stories.
If we share the same stories and mix our colors, we will be one.
I believe I can do it
James Rojas,
Buena Park, CA
Hello, I am a Mexican who was born here in the United States. I moved to Mexico at a young age and that’s where I grew up with Mexican culture.
When moving back to the United States, my mom kept repeating that I received a chance that she couldn’t have, and that is being able to finish high school and be able to attend college so I can get a career. She states that it is not only her but she is aware that her own race struggle on getting an education and a proper future. She notices the stereotypical views towards Mexicans that they only come to the US for labor and get paid minimum. Examples such as working at fast food restaurants, retail stores, and the most well-known job for Mexicans which is a construction where everyone sees Mexicans working on that job as a norm.
But, does my mother make that claim because she embraces those stereotypes because of how common they were? Well, in reality, she works with her sister cleaning houses which is work that requires physical work.
So now, I am a college student trying my best to make my mother’s dream true and show that as a Mexican I can be able to achieve more. I not only want to make my family proud, but I also want to make my culture be seen more as just pity for working the hardest job for little reward. I believe that I can do it, that I have the same chance just as every American, and that I can make people from my culture be seen as more than hard workers. I am someone with a future.
The culmination of hate and hope.
Kimberly,
Pittsfield, MA.
My father, whom I don’t know, is black and my mother is white. I was raised in a White, Irish family. Growing up, no one in my family looked like me, but I never noticed until ‘Roots’ premiered on TV.
I had my son with a white man, so he is one quarter black, but is assumed to be Caucasian because of his appearance. My newly arrived grandson, is also white. And so for all these reasons, I spend a good deal of time (as does my son) trying to convince others that I was NOT adopted and that I AM a biological member of my own family.
In addition, there are two basic facts that I perpetually have to deal with; the fact that I am not white AND the fact that I am not black. People assume I ‘have the best of both worlds’ – in some ways; yes. There is a presumption that I am somehow less likely to be ‘ghetto’ or ‘hood’. My appearance often confuses people as to my origin, so they err on the side of caution. I am able to visibly tan, and have slightly less conflict with my hair. People find me more approachable than someone they consider ‘black’. I am often described as ‘exotic’ looking.
However, in other ways; no. I am still the target of racism, from both groups! Whites who do not accept others, recognize that no matter how ‘light’ I am, I am not ‘one of them’. And Blacks have a tendency to assume I ‘think I’m better’ or ‘act white’. There is a resentment from Black women, in particular about their ‘light skinned sisters’ stealing their men. But when I date white people, I am accused of ‘dissing my brothers’.
All this is based solely on MY OWN EXPERIENCES. But I believe that while I am a target for all the hate and resentment from both races, (and others), I also represent the future. Because that creamy beige, has become unremarkable. It could be a mixture of ANY ethnic combination, and so as more and more people become that color, the origins of it will become less and less important. …that’s my hope, at least.
Norwegian with nappy hair doesn’t fit.
WilmaS,
Seattle, WA.
If I had a dollar for every time I was asked if my sons were adopted…It’s happened a lot. A complete stranger approaches my family, usually in a grocery store or some other public location, and compliments me on my family. “Your sons are so handsome,” the person will say, and by now I can almost tell what they’re going to say next. “Are they adopted?” “No,” I say, “they are my biological children.” The stranger looks bewildered for a moment. I can see she is trying to make sense of the puzzle before her, white parents, two black sons, one white son. What’s up with that? It doesn’t fit in the tidy categories this person has in her mind. Our brains are constantly making associations and categorizing information, and when something doesn’t fit, we try to make sense of it, even if it means making a fool of ourselves by asking a white mother, a complete stranger, if her black children are adopted or not.
There are other ways this causes confusion. A job interviewer receives my son’s resume, his Norwegian surname prominently displayed at the top, and then a black man shows up to the interview. What? No, he didn’t lie on his resume, but the effect is the same.
There’s no appropriate box in the “Diversity” section of a survey or census. “Mixed-race.” What does that mean? Afro-Caucasian? Norwegian/Northern European and Afro-American? At the end of the day, it means my sons are black. That’s the way the world sees them. Because of that, it means I, their white mother, viewing the world from my privileged, white perspective, am ill-equipped to raise my black sons. This was never more apparent to me than after the shooting of Trayvon Martin when I suddenly realized I had not had “the talk” with my sons. You know, I hadn’t told them how to handle being stopped by the police.
I will never know what it’s like to be a black man in the United States. There are certain things that, because of my white experience, I will never know nor be able to teach my sons. They may not look like me, but they are my sons, my biological sons, my flesh and blood, and I have tried to prepare them for the world the best I can with love, discipline, and humor. Sometimes, when a stranger asks if they’re adopted, I look at my sons with a smile and say, “No, we’re still trying to figure out who their mother is.”
Looking at me you don’t see
Raquel Saunders,
New York, NY.
My dad is half black and my mom is white, when look at me you only really see the white. But I am a quarter black, and when I say that people look at me like I just gave them a lie. It pisses me off. Don’t judge me on how I look.
