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Black-white man; white black man

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAKirl T. Lawson,
Oakland, CA.

I have so many tales to share about my experience with my color (or lack of “definitive color recognition”). growing up in Chicago, I was called “a white n*****” by friends at times w/ affection and at times derisively. Initially the appellation hurt my feelings until I took an objective look at myself in the mirror. Years later and moving to San Francisco and working at city hall, a female constituent asking for me but not remembering my name, described me as “he is either a “black white-man” or a “white black-man”. Hearing that relayed, those phases resonated with me in their succinctness. These are the ways that people view/see me. it’s been a blessing and a curse as either can create discomfit for the viewer and then extent to me. Black folk ask me “what ‘is” you” seeking racial confirmation. I tell them “you know what I is” you just want me to verify/affirm it

Black man, white girl kissing; beautifully scared.

05_cs_4x5Tracey Rae Palmer,
Myrtle Beach, SC.

I was told never to kiss a n***** or get close to them; they would only rob you or kill you for money. I found myself in collage in 1979 and a black man got an “A” in his class. With arms held wide and incredible excitement, he kissed me and continued to celebrate with the other classmates. I just stood there. It was not different, it was wonderful. I was scared to say anything because he may come back and … then what?

Our Outer Appearance Does Not Matter

I grew up in a very divided household when it comes down to the words race and racism. When I 7 my parents divorced, I moved in with my mother and she began dating, 9 months rolls around and she is pregnant by her then-boyfriend, now husband. This man was your very stereotypical redneck Kentuckian, him and my father are complete opposites, it was very odd to me that my mother had picked him of all people to be with. Fast forward a bit, and I had the opportunity spend some time with my friend Darius and his brother. We were 8 years old and went to elementary school together. We were a mirror of each other in personality, humor, imagination, you name it, that was us, our only difference was skin color. I brought Darius over to play basketball one day in my backyard, we made it two steps in through the front gate and I hear the front door fly open. “Drew! Get your ass in this house now” says the redneck bear my mother had just married, “yes sir I respond”. This is when I am at a loss for words, I knew Darius and I looked different and that was all, I hadn’t yet experienced racism at this point in my life. Prior to the last 10 or so months, my parents had friends of all shapes, sizes and colors in our home. “We don’t let n*****s in our yard boy!” was the first thing that was said to me, my jaw almost hit the floor, this word, I had never heard this word, but I could immediately feel all the hate that backed it up. A six letter word that threw me completely off guard. “Tell his black ass to get the fuck off my property, and when your ass comes back in, we are gonna have a serious talk, and you are not, I repeat, NOT allowed to talk to that boy ever again, you understand me boy?” and I slowly shook my head in agreeance.
Now I am 25, that once racist man has lost most of his hate for others because he had 2 children of his own and would never deny them anything. But when I was 8 years old, I experienced “race” for the first time in my life. I witnessed something that divides us as people. When I say something, I am not referring to race itself, I am talking about the act of discrimination toward other races. Typing this now, it has dawned on me, there is an ongoing argument as to whether racism is learned, or just part of who we are. This is an experience that tells me one hundred percent that it is learned. Hating a group of people solely based on their outer appearance is quite possibly the most ignorant thing in the history of ignorance. As a child, I was grounded because my best friend didn’t look like me, I was grounded because my best friends skin color was darker than mine, I was grounded because my hair was wavy and brown and his was black and twisted into cornrows. When I was a kid, I was grounded because the man my mother had married, had no tolerance toward someone who was slightly different from himself.

Utopia is a nonexistent colorblind world

blmadon1V. Anne Spence,
Powhatan, VA.

Would I have been called a “N****” if my skin were white”? Growing up in El Barrio and the Bronx in New York City was I called the “N” word by a redheaded transit cop at 12. The last incident occurred in a store in here Virginia. I was in my forties. Maybe now that I’m in my fifties it will just be said under their breath.

Free speaking teens, changing relational space?

Tara Saltzman,
Evergreen, CO.

My teens arguing in favor of de-degrading(?) the word n*****, inspired by conviction that changing the influence of words (no longer receiving the word “n*****” as having negative intent or implication), changes relationships. wondering if they are empowered by the innocence of youth and lack of historic understanding AND regardless able to infuse real change through that space.

Eeny. Meeny. Miney. Moe. Catch a…

LAAuguste Budhram,
USA.

Anyone who has ever been in the minority remembers the first time a word knocked the wind out of them. As a child, my first time came packaged in a rhyme known by everyone– making the blow feel conspiratorial and that much worse. The rhyme is part of every 10 year- old’s decision making routine. The melody and words are recited automatically with little attention paid to detail. But I remember the first time the words hit me.

I don’t remember what we were trying to decide, but we would defer to the routine to make the decision. “Eeeny, meeny, miney, moe, catch a n***** by the toe.”

Wait. Did I hear right? Isn’t tigger? I’d always said tigger. Or Tiger. I think its tiger. Isn’t it? My face was hot.

The first kid was eliminated from the decision-making process as the rhyme came again. “Eeeny, meeny miney, moe, catch a n***** by the toe.”

Definitely ‘n*****.’

I looked at each face in the group to see if anyone else realized what they’d said–maybe it was a collective mistake? I was stunned as the third wave of rhyming started again. But as we approached ‘catch a…’ I snapped out of my daze and as if on auto-pilot, I yelled “TIGER!” over the rest of the white kids who proceeded as usual.

They stopped chanting, looked at me and ‘Caroline’ said flatly, “It’s not tiger.”

“Well, it’s not n*****.” I said.

She smiled as she replied, “It is n*****. You just think its tiger because you are a n*****.”

I grew up in a predominantly white neighborhood in a predominantly white city. My parents are Caribbean immigrants. My mother occasionally reminded my sister and me “You’re black and you’re women. You’ll have to work twice as hard.” But that’s where our advice on race and identity ended. I can’t tell you when or how I learned that the n-word is a bad word, but I think on some gut level, people of color just know.

I can still remember the acid rising in my throat as I dug my nails into the palms of my clenched fists. I simultaneously wanted to hurt each of these kids, and hug them and ask them to love me. I felt stupid for only now figuring out the words, and they looked at me as though I’d just been let in on a group secret– one that they’d been eager for me to discover.

An older boy broke the painful silence with this gem: “You’re not really a n*****. You just look like one.”

With a 10 year-old’s best judgment, this explanation was good enough for me because I wanted friends. (Throughout my life I’d continue to hear different versions of this statement that I wouldn’t accept as easily–but that’s another essay.)

The first time is never predictable, but always memorable. There is no way a child can be prepared for their first time, which breaks my heart as a new parent. I can’t protect my daughter from her first time, but I can hold her when she cries.

Through honesty, we can all grow.

Celest,
Lakeland, FL.
Southeastern University,
Understanding Human Diversity Class.

For everyone living in today’s society; we can all grow if we are honest with our choices, words, & actions. Honesty; that time when my a group of my white friends and I changed the letters on a church sign to say, “church of the nig,” I realize that was wrong. We meant it out of no immediate racism, but it was an action that was a product of the institutionalized racism in our society today. I am ashamed of my actions, but I will grow, and keep growing so that subtle oppression has no root in my life.

New Brand Of Racism Is Worse

Anna Berch-Norton,
Pittsburgh, PA.

Yeah, when white guys call their friends “my nigga” and people say to their Vietnamese friend, “it’s funny cause you’re Asian”, that doesn’t mean that we’re totally over that whole racism thing. It means that people are subscribing to the hipster theory of racism that you can say really racist, disgusting shit all you want as long as you do so ironically just to show that you actually are completely tolerant. And just because you’re black doesn’t mean you can make Holocaust jokes in the presence of an agnostic half-Jew who isn’t a big fan of genocide. My mixed race ex-boyfriend made some of those because he thought he was entitled. (He thought he was entitled to a lot of things.) What is so funny about systematic ethnic cleansing, anyway? Would it be funny if it happened to you? Would it also be hilarious if you got harassed by the police every time you went to the corner store? Being a (very) white young female I don’t even get a second glance. And I don’t deserve that invisibility any more than a black guy in a hoodie. Just like I don’t deserve, or need random strangers asking me if I know where I’m going whenever I’m in a poor neighborhood in the city. I hate that people assume I’m a little white girl from the burbs who can’t take care of herself. We make so many assumptions, so many judgments, based on so little. But seriously, white hipster kids: please don’t try to ironicize your way into non-racism. And stop telling me about how many minority friends you have to make up for it. Because when it comes right down to it, you’re not much different from your great-grandparents who dressed in white and burned crosses. You’re just better at hiding it.

No One Is Better Than You…

Kim Skillern Samuels,
Cleveland Heights, OH.

I lived in a neighborhood of black people, and went to an inner city public school. When friends found that I’d be moving to the suburbs they teased me, and said “Those honkeys are gonna chase you home from school.” At the age of six I thought a “honkey” was a dog. I was a little scared but, I really didn’t make an issue of it..

My parents bought their second home in an all white suburb in 1965. The first black family on the street, I grew up in a predominantly white/jewish neighborhood. I started class in a public elementary school. Other than myself, there was one other male student that was black in my grade. We were the only students of color for at least 3 years before other students that were black started to attend schools in the suburbs.

My first day in my new second grade class, I remember my teacher introducing me to my new classmates. She said something like this, ‘… her skin is brown and she is different from the rest of you.” I swear, at seven years old I didn’t know what she meant by that. I went home, looked at myself in the mirror and said, “Hmmm. My skin is brown. Really?” As time went by, I noticed that my hair was not quite like any of the other little girls’ hair in my school. My style of speak was different from every one else’s., and I played games, sang songs, and listened to music that no one in my new neighborhood ever heard of. Although I assimilated, it was no secret that on the surface, I was different from the rest.

I got along pretty good with the other kids that were white and/or jewish. But when I got to the third grade, there were little 8 year old boys calling me “N*****” and “Stinky” like it was my name. Imagine that! I’d never heard the word n***** before. Not in my house. Not no where! So I went home one day, and asked my mother, “Mommy, why are they calling me N*****?” This is when my mother taught me about slavery in the United States, and she taught me never feel inferior to any one because “no one is better than you.” That’s what she said! I was only eight years old. I had a hard time making sense out of what she told me. But, over time education, knowledge of self, and life in general helped me to understand.

When I started school in the suburb, I was waaay behind in math. The school I went to down the way, we were learning adding and subtraction of whole numbers. But at the suburban school I struggled in math trying to learn multiplication and division of fractions. The teacher suggested that I go to summer school for math. Somehow I ended up enrolled into the Hebrew school around the corner from my house. Although I didn’t learn much about math at Hebrew school that summer, I learned a lot of yiddish terms, about Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Chanukah, praying to the torah, latkes and matzo ball soup. I should have been the one that wrote that book, “White, Black and Jewish” by Rebecca Walker. (-; One thing I remember though… No one, not once, ever called me a n***** while at Hebrew school.

Something else that sticks in my mind… I had friends. My best friend was a white/jewish girl as most of the girls that I hung around in elementary school were.. Sometime. I’d visit their homes. Most of the time these girls came from families that were not rich by any means but, they had a cleaning lady that of course was a woman who happened to be black. When these cleaning ladies would see me come in the house, they’d wait until no one was around and ask me, “Hey! Where did you come from?” and “What are you doing over here?” Heh-heh!… I should have written that book, “The Help”.

A lot of the kids in the neighborhood that were white would come to my house. They came to a home that was clean, calm, with a warm, welcoming environment. Many of those kids told me and my family members that our household was nothing like the one described by their parents of what a Black household would be. Not too long ago I received letters from girls who were white and I was friends with decades ago. Expressing how their parents were uncomfortable when ever I came to their home. I always wondered why as long as we were on the phone having a good time, it was okay. But I was always the one left out of being invited to the little white girls’ week end outings at the put-put range, swimming pool, or amusement parks. I was frustrated by that. I didn’t understand why… Until I got older.

One day after school some white boys followed me home. We were in the fourth grade. They kept calling me “N*****” as they followed me. They crept up on me, and I took off! Ran across the street thinking if I ran into the neighborhood synagogue they’d leave me alone. The boys were shouting racial slurs at me. When I reached for the door to enter the synagogue, the door was locked. Aw rats! I was cornered! The boys came at me, yelling “N*****”, “Dirty”, “Darky”. There was four of them, and only one of me. Two of the boys grabbed each of my arms while one other boy watched. The fourth boy walked up to me, opened the fly of his pant, pulled his penis out, and shook it at me. Then, they all took off running. Boy, was I mad, and humiliated! They ended up getting their’s in the end though. I’d catch them one by one, and would scratch them up until my nails was filled with their skin and blood. Word got around. Many of those kids stopped calling me “N*****”.

By time I got to the sixth grade, a number of families that were black moved into this suburb of white and jewish neighborhoods. When time came for graduating to Junior High, all of the students that were black went to the school that was more racial and culturally diverse. Most of the white and/or jewish kids went to the Junior High that had very few sprinkles of students that were black. This included all of the white girls I was friends with, and the white boys that called me “N*****”. I never saw them again. Not even in high school. That was all right by me.

This was my experience as a young girl who happened to be black in a predominantly white/jewish neighborhood. It wasn’t always pretty. I had some good times too though! I learned a lot of things about a lot of different people growing up in a predominantly white/jewish neighborhood. Through it all I hate no one. I embrace diversity, and no one is better than me.

A child, called a white pig.

M. Landrum
Atlanta, GA

I grew up poor in a mixed neighborhood in south Atlanta. My two best friends were white and black, and for the most part we all got along. One day my white friend was angry and called my black friend a n*****, and even though I’d never heard the word I could tell that, coming from her, it was vile. I asked my mother when I got home what the word meant, explained what happened, and was told I should probably stop seeing my white friend. I was around 6 at the time.

At about 7 years old, I was learning how to play tennis with my dad. I hated tennis, but it was one of the only times dad was happy with me. We were at a court at our local park, and it was getting late, but the park had lights you could run on a timer. I remember the lights suddenly going off, and then a group of young teenagers began shouting at us. I don’t remember what all they said, but I remember hearing “white pigs”, over and over. I asked my dad if we could turn the lights back on and keep playing, but I could tell he was angry and sad as he led me to the car and explained that the lights wouldn’t come back on after a certain hour. I never knew if that was a lie to protect my innocence, but I took it at the time.

I have more, but it’s not important. There are so many stories of racism, and they all seem to begin so early in our lives. To this day, I don’t understand what drives a person to hate another without even knowing them. I may be a bit naive, but I still hold on to hope, that every time I meet someone new, they don’t judge by anything other than character. Teach your children love, not hate. Teach them compassion, not paranoia. Teach them respect, not fear. Please, be kind to all.

Kendra, 2: taught to exclaim “n*****”

Rebecca Zeissler
Salem, IL

I was Kendra’s teenaged babysitter. One day, before he left for work, Kendra’s father gleefully showed me the new “trick” he was teaching his daughter. He turned on the TV and waited for a black person to appear on screen. When this happened, he pointed to the person and asked Kendra, “What is that?” to which she replied “N*****!” They both laughed with delight.

Attorney, Ivy League, still another n*****

Elizabeth Cary
New York City, NY

I have done everything right in life, yet still I cannot get a cab, people lock their doors and cross the street when they see me coming, I’m stalked by salespeople in stores, I’m “suspicious” when I drive in a nice neighborhood or in a nice car, and my children can lawfully be murdered when I send them to the store for a pack of skittles. Is this the American Dream?

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