The Race Card Project
By Michele Norris
Joseph L Collins Jr
Omaha, NE
Ashland Avenue in Chicago was the street you could cross at 69th street or you would get beat up by White men/boys in the early 60’s. A white priest was a defender of the neighborhood that let that hate happen. God is about Love and that religious leader did not speak it.
Anonymous,
Omaha, NE.
My mother is black and father who I never knew was latino. When I was 3 my mother met and married a white man fresh off the boat from Europe. Together they had a daughter,my baby sister. I only ever knew this man as any sort of father figure and because I was so young when he came, called him Daddy (his name) or just plain dad, but he was far from an ideal father figure and gave me a hard lesson on race early on. Though my mother insisted that all of her children be treated exactly the same, we were not equal,because my stepfather clearly favored his own child over myself and my older brother, also half latino. I felt like a 2nd class citizen more and more as I got older,because my baby sister had so many things I didn’t. She had dual citizenship, got to visit overseas, my dad talked to her in a special language (his native tongue),and attended a private school.
He constantly compared his child to my older brother and me,calling her European and making her think she wasn’t black. He labelled my older brother and me as black b*a*****d*s and my mother a black w*h**e. He’d scream these things at her when he was mad ,telling her she was raising two juvenile delinquents and how black women made the worst mothers. When my mother was out of the house he would take his anger out on my older brother and me,NEVER his golden perfect European child, with physical abuse and berating us that we were worthless and only ever going to be gangbangers or streetwalkers,because everyone knew black kids were stupid and nobody cared about them. He told us we should be grateful our mother married him and he agreed to raise us, how lucky we were to have a father,because most worthless black kids don’t have a dad. He told me these things for my whole life and like any other child I believed him wholeheartedly…..until I left for college a few years ago and discovered that not only was it okay to be black, but was actually a celebrated thing. Slowly I began to lose my stepfather’s indoctrination of self-hatred.
Recently I went home for the holidays and and after getting drunk dared to ask him why he had treated me as he did and how could he possibly claim to be madly in love with a black woman,while having such animosity towards her black children? His answer stunned me, “You are not dead. You are not a prostitute. You are not in prison. I did not abuse you for being black. I saved you from being black!” This man,this pro-European white man, who was the only father I ever knew did not save me…..he destroyed me.
Anonymous,
Omaha, NE
Whenever I meet someone new, my first impression is “they’re Black”, or “they’re Latino”. I get so many assumptions just based off the color of their skin, and I’m ashamed that I do that.
Tory Robinson,
Omaha, NE.
I refuse to be fearful growing up in Texas, I learned fear is an obstacle. I now live in Nebraska a state that hides its racism but I won’t be broken because of the strength in my pedigree.
Flora Griffith,
Omaha, NE.
I was eight years old when I first began to feel like an outsider. My school was very segregated, white people hung out with white people and black people hung out with black people, ect. I felt alone, I was never truly accepted into the black, white, or latino communities. The phrases “You’re not ____ enough,” and “No, girl you aren’t ____ you’re ____,” began to ring in my ears. It was very difficult for me to make friends because of the borders between people. Today, I am the only person of color in my friend group, and one of the few people of color in my grade. Often after people hear my ethnicity say something along the lines of: “Really, you don’t act —-,” or “Well, you’re not really —-“. Quite frankly it’s infuriating. I also act and often when I talk to my friends about roles I want to audition for, if the character is a person of color they’ll naively say something close to “Well you don’t really present enough as —-.” I’m still grappling with my identity, but I’ve been getting better at calmly correcting the inappropriate remarks made by people who don’t understand. Although I’m young, I’ve come to learn that you are the only person who can define your identity and no other person should every stop you from being who you are.
Jess,
Omaha, NE
As a white woman who grew up in the midwest I was always told I shouldn’t talk about the differences, it was bad to talk about how my skin was different or my hair was different than another child. I think these messages have positive intentions, not to make someone feel bad for being different but I feel now as an adult that these messages do more hard than good. Embrace differences, discuss them, and learn to find what connects us. We don’t have to be scared of things that make us different that can be our strength. America is supposed to be a melting pot, a country that allows everyone to be their own person and embrace their individuality. I want to be a part of rewriting this narrative and helping to eliminate this unintentional microaggression.
Rob Hinton,
Omaha, NE
Many people in my family are/were incredibly and aggressively racist. Growing up I didn’t understand what the jokes meant or the slurs meant but I knew it felt off for some reason. The older I got, the more abrasive and hurtful the “jokes” became. My first girlfriend was African American and, living in Nebraska, this quickly opened my eyes to the glares, disdain, and contempt that she and her family endured day in and day out. As I grew older in the Marine Corps and met more and more people from different walks of life I realized more and more how hurtful and destructive those “jokes”, sneers, contempt and the like are to people and how easily they can become brainworms that feed the brain with all the anger and fear it can take.
I watched great Marines be disciplined for minor things while us white guys slid by. I watched MP’s harass my friend at the main gate of the base because he was wearing a plain white t-shirt, forbidden by Marine Corps uniform standards. Others in the group of cars with us had no issues, even though many had the same style of plain t-shirt on. I watch a good friend get sentenced to time in the brig and then dishonorably discharged after being 10 minutes late to our morning meeting. You guessed it, he was black.
I guess I’m trying to say that it’s important people be presented with things like this program where you can see a myriad of views and reasons in a non-confrontational way.
This is a tender but important subject and having more ways to create conversations is always welcome. These last few years have brought out a lot of the ugly in our country but I’m hoping for a brighter, happier future.
Sun Absy,
Omaha, NE.
My family is incredibly diverse, racially, culturally and religiously. I feel fortunate to have spent a life within environments where peoples’ superficial traits aren’t the focus. An aspect of overcoming racism and prejudices is learning to let go of categories and labels and to stop (whomever you are and whatever group you are identifying with) blaming, demanding and using aggressive speech to make your beliefs and emotions known. Coexistence at its most peaceful does require an amount of color blindness among societies, we are all the same physiologically, intellectually and emotionally. The ways we categorize ourselves become harmful when they become everything. I’m peacefully unapologetic for this perspective.
Jay Grabow,
Omaha, NH.
I’m a 52 year old white guy, living in middle class suburbs. Yeah, I’ve struggled to get where I am in life and I’ll need to keep struggling to maintain it. I grew up absorbing the racism around me. But I witnessed two prime examples of how racism affects African Americans while in my teens and I’ve worked to reject racism ever since. Still, I can’t “walk a mile in their shoes”, because mere empathy won’t tell me exactly what it’s like to be black in America. For this reason, if an African American tells me that some event or some statement is “racist”, I’ll generally take their word for it. After all, it’s not for the perpetrators of hate to distinguish what’s racist and what isn’t – it’s up to the victims to do so. Listen more. Talk less.
Anonymous,
Omaha, NE.
Born and raised in the midwest, I studied Spanish and went to live in Latin America. While there, I met my now husband, we wed and have two children. I was always considered an expat (expatriate) while living abroad and my white-privilege was amplified during my time there.
Now that we have lived here in the U.S. for 3 years, my husband is not considered an expat, but rather an immigrant. With this, people see him as poor, uneducated, lazy and question his motivation for our marriage. When he is out alone with our children he frequently receives side-ways glances because he has dark skin and our children have my pale-skin and freckles. Even close friends and family have made jokes about whether he was actually their father.
Will Johnson,
Omaha, NE.
My father tried to ignore the crime and filth that appeared in the early 1970 in Flatbush, until he at the age of 60, was attacked with a butcher knife in his office by a new resident. Dad shot him in the heart with his legal pistol, and was found innocent by a grand jury. Needless to say he sold his medical office very quickly. You want racial attitude? You got it!
Wendy A. Merritt,
Omaha, NE.
I heard Jamaal’s story this morning on my way to work and could see the similarities as an African American woman with a “white” name. Not so much anymore, but as a child I was teased for talking and acting “white”, as well. After attending a PWI (Predominantly White Institution) in Michigan where I grew up, I now work at a Fortune 200 company so my name, speech and mannerism seem to have worked in my favor.
Ronald E. Davis,
Omaha, NE.
I bought my first home in 2003 in a small middle class neighborhood in Western Omaha, Nebraska. My house is situated on a hill and I share a street with young and established families of various sizes. The demographics of the area are predominantly white. Over the years there has been a gradual influx of color. For example, three doors down to the East, on my side of the street resides a Pakistani family. The husband is part of the leadership of the Homes association and we have brief conversation and acknowledge each other while cutting the grass on weekends. Four doors down to the West on my side of the street lives an interracial couple. The husband is white, the wife is black and their children are a beautiful cocoa brown. I see these children a lot as they walk up and down the sidewalk on their way to the playground that is situated at the end of my street. I am the only single black male that lives in the neighborhood. I am a programmer by trade and my work hours were eight to five.
A few of my neighbors came out and introduced themselves. Conversation was free flowing and it felt good to be welcomed like that. I have always been a private person and I generally keep a low profile. Sure, every now and then I would have people over who wanted to see my house. There were no wild parties that are typical of single life. My intention was too settle in and become part of the fabric of the neighborhood. I took my time when buying furniture for my house. At first, most of the rooms were empty and cavernous. Every night when I would come home from work I would take a book, lay on the floor and occupy a spot to read and daydream. My two cats, Tilly and Michael Anthony were also getting their fill of the new digs. Sometimes they would appear separately and other times they would appear in unison requesting food, attention or play time.
I was still shutting back and forth between my new home and my old town house. Boxes, clothes and cleaning equipment had to either be discarded or placed in closets and shelf-space in the house. It was a relief to finally get those tasks done so that I could relax. One weekend, I was out running around doing errands. I live on Ames street which is perpendicular to the main thoroughfare in my area. The speed limit on this street is twenty five miles an hour. I pay particular to that because there are always children playing about and they sometimes dart across the street without looking where they are going. Needless to say, I keep my eyes peeled for anything and everything. At the time, I had one automobile and it was a white Volvo S90. Back in the day, people would have referred to that car as a Yuppie mobile. In my case, since I am black it would have been called a Buppie mobile. If my memory serves, Buppie would translate to Black Urban Professional. I lived in suburbia, so I loosely embraced the moniker.
As I drove up my street, I noticed a police officer driving slowly in my direction. Through years of experience, it has taken me years to dampen the alarms that sound off in my head while driving in the presence of law enforcement. Even though I am DWB(driving while black) and have not committed any infraction, my spidey sense tingles. Its origin comes from a multitude of places. Stories I’ve read, the five o’clock news, personal accounts from friends as well as personal experiences of my own add to the alarm bell that rings quietly in the back of the mind. As we came upon each other I made a point to acknowledge the officer with a head nod. I got no such action in return. As he passed me, I watched him in my rear view mirror and I saw him stop at the stop light. I pulled into my driveway and didn’t hit the control to raise the garage door. I just sat in the car and he proceeded to remain stopped at the stop sign with his motor running. I remained seated in my car and did not turn my head to look right towards his vehicle. I thought, “why is he still stopped at the stop sign?” I was the reason why he remained stopped. It was obvious that he didn’t think that I belonged in the neighorhood. So, I continued to sit my car and he remained at the stop light. I sat there for about five to eight minutes. I thought, “should I sit here and let him come back and get a closer view?” The wild part of me was tempted to do just that. I was sitting in my driveway, in front of my house, in my car that was paid for. I was credentialed in that I had my license in my wallet, my title was in the glove compartment and there were groceries and other items in the trunk. If he were to approach me, there would be nothing to take issue except for the fact that I was sitting in my driveway for an inordinate amount of time. I abandoned that idea and proceeded to hit the remote control. The door raised and all of the lights within flicked on. I looked over in the direction of the stop sign and the officer drove off. Interesting story huh? I have plenty more where that came from, but this one will have to do for now.
Anonymous.
Omaha, NE
“Excuse me, what’s your nationality?”
“I’m from the U.S.”
“No,” he chuckled, “like, where are you originally from?”
“I was born and raised in the U.S.”
“You know what I mean!”
“You’re talking about ethnicity…” I offered.
“Yeah, whatever. Like, where are you really from?”
“I’m Chinese.”
“That’s what I thought!” I was looking at you and wondering if you were mixed or something.”
Silence.
“I adopted two girls from China!”
“Good for you.”
(Questions to not accost strangers with at the gym)
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