The school cafeteria is still* segregated
Steven Rodgers,
Submitted via Twitter: @metricmodulate.
(Opt. “self* segregated.”)
Segregated schools made for ahistorical arrogance.
Sarah Dornbos,
Sunland, CA
I didn’t know what I didn’t know, or even realize I was growing up in segregation because my parents wanted “good schools” and could by a house there because of my grandfather’s GI bill inheritance money.
America, we are your children too.
Sheree Lewis,
Fontana, CA.
The term American should represent the vast multitude of cultures, ethnic backgrounds, languages, complexions, origins and spiritual beliefs of its inhabitants. When those in power do not address the mistreatment of humans because their race is considered inferior, or choose to scrutinize and negatively profile individuals because of a difference in appearance, they are NOT practicing an American way. On behalf of the oppressed, forgotten, devalued, segregated, unappreciated and hated… America, we are your children too.
Racial stereotypes…killing mankind…hearts blind?
Amber Jackson Baswell,
Columbus, MS.
As a military brat I was naïve, sheltered. It was only when my father was stationed in the deep South that “RACE” entered my vocabulary. I was shocked as a 15 year old (back in ’95) to see that churches, schools, hangouts, even the local beauty pageants were segregated! Blew my mind. So much emphasis on the color of ones skin when we all bleed red and what matters most in a (wo)man comes from deep within.
Girl, you are not black enough.
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.
Taught all wrong, now teaching others
Steve Jones,
Durham, NC.
I grew up in a segregated community and the concept that African-Americans (of course, not the word that was used) were inferior. It took a long time to get out of that mindset and even longer to acknowledge the privilege that comes with my white skin. It’s a privilege to be able to teach about race in the US today as a way of undoing what I experienced.
Quit news job; wedding photos segregated.
Susan Roberts,
Moscow, ID.
My first daily newspaper job in 1964. Couldn’t treat people that way. Went to work with Y-Teens in low income Hamden, CT, instead. Learned a lot about others!
Raised in segregated north, I’m racist.
Rev. Kathy Bird DeYoung,
Aurora, CO.
I was raised in metro Detroit in one of the white northern suburbs. Now I live in the most integrated city in the nation, Aurora, Colorado. My city of origin is more integrated now, thankfully. But, I still wouldn’t want to return. I’m frustrated by this new ethic where no one claims to be racist. I was at a meeting recently where someone said, “I’m not racist, but…” The BUT means that he IS racist. It’s better for all of us to admit that we ARE racist and begin to talk about it!
Then he died in our alley.
Sue Blanshan,
Okemos, MI.
My family lived in segregated Georgia when I was young. A playmates mother called the police to report a black man smelling her clean laundry on the back yard clothes line. The police came and chased him three blocks and shot him by our house in the alley. He died there. When I got home from third grade I saw the blood stains on the ground and was told what had happened. I knew he should not have died for something like that.
Why do we have “black communities”?
Vicotor J. Boney,
Acworth, GA.
Any legitimate discussion about race in America must include this question. Fifty plus years removed from the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Fair Housing Act of 1968, we remain segregated and unequal.
Cautious eye-holding while saying hello.
Mark Loup,
Williams Bay, IL.
This is one of the reasons I’m glad I left Chicago, one of the most segregated big cities in America. The tension just seems to overwhelm intentions. I live near the resort city of Lake Geneva in Wisconsin, and while I’m sure there’s plenty of racism here, there’s less tension. I work in retail, and when black people come into the shop, they expect to be treated like everyone else, and they’re relaxed about it. I also see more mixed-race couples. It just feels like less of an issue.
Granted, I haven’t been here long, and I don’t see any businesses owned by black people, nor am I aware of black people belonging to any of the governments of the local villages and townships. Same goes for the local chambers of commerce and business associations.
But just to be able to talk to people without that suspicion and caution as a starting place feels wonderful.
So I Am an ALIEN, Apparently
Repeka Touli,
Murray, UT.
“Alien” is the one word I grew up hating because when I was old enough to carry an
Identification card (for having a job), I thought it was the coolest thing ever because it made me
feel like I‟ve grown up and I get to own one just like the adults did. Unbeknownst to me, I was
unaware of the impact it would have on me for years to come.
Every year for as long as I can remember, my parents and I would visit the Immigration office
which meant I had to miss a full day of school. Missing a day of school is like punishment to me
because it was my happy place as a child. In the Immigration office were a vast amount of
strangers sitting for the entire day, waiting for their turn to see the Immigration officer. I had no
idea why we were there to start with until I became a teenager. Nonetheless, it was a routine
thing in my mind because I have done it before, time and time again over the course of my young
years.
I sat and watched a number of people stand in front of a colored back-wall while their pictures
were taken to obtain their ID cards. I watched the next person get called up, take his/her picture,
but not before an officer walked up towards him and changed the color of the back-wall (for
point‟s sake…from blue to red) and I became confused and asked myself, “Why did he change
the color of the back-wall?” I quickly realized what that back-wall meant…One color was for
“Citizens” and the other for “Aliens” and suddenly, my world crashed and for the first time, I felt
like an “Alien” and an “outsider” in a place I called, “Home.” Sheer disappointment washed
over me and suddenly, the feelings of being ashamed hit me, followed by the agony of the reality
of my life‟s status: “So I am an ALIEN apparently.”
From that point on, I really took notice of the minute details on my ID card. Next to my name, I was referred to as “Alien,” and in those
moments, it hurt so much to come to the saddest realization and understanding of “why.” After
all my growing up years that my parents and I visited the Immigration Office, never did it occur
to me that it was to renew our “ALIEN” status in a place I have lived in for most of my young
life, a place I loved because it was my Home.
I started to question the purpose of such a harsh and derogatory term of identification because
as a youngster, the primary association of “ALIEN” I knew was: A tall, skinny, bald looking
creature with big grey eyes that by definition are, creatures from outer space, I used to see on
TV as a child. As a teenager at the time, I asked myself, “Who in their right mind would refer to
another human being as “alien” when there are better and more humane adjectives in the
dictionary to choose from?” What of “foreigner” or “non-citizen” “newcomer?” Surely there is a
better way to define the “other” other than “alien?”
“Alien” in short is “Alienated” or “Alienation” which by definition is: “To make indifferent
or hostile; to turn away; transfer or divert.” This is how I always felt or at least it made me feel
whenever I looked at my ID Card. What used to be something to be proud of became something
to be ashamed of, thus leaving me to feel segregated, looked-down at, frowned upon, demeaned,
an outsider, not belong just to name a few.
Last year I found some old Immigration forms and when I saw how I was referred to again as:
“Alien,” those ugly and degrading emotions came back to haunt me as an adult, therefore,
nothing has changed. The sad reality remains unchanged. If you are not from America, you are
simply labeled, ALIEN. The reality of this emotional nightmare happened in class one day. My
elementary teacher was marking something on her roll and called out to me, “Peka, where were
you born?” I did a quick justification in my young mind and said, “Here” referring to American Samoa. The feelings of „belonging‟ rather than being segregated came over me and for the time being, it felt so nice to be able to say: „Yes, I was born here, therefore, I am NOT an alien rather, I am just like everyone else. But then having been taught right from wrong haunted me for the
rest of that year until the following year when the next teacher asked me the same question again,
“Peka, where were you born?” to which I shamefully answered, “No.” Unfortunately, as an
adult, I still feel the same way. After living in another country for two decades before moving to
my “dream land” and to find the same description, “ALIEN” if you‟re not from America, it
becomes a scarring reminder that, “Oh that‟s right, you‟re still an „alien‟ because your ID card
says so.”
Who would have thought that one significant word like “ALIEN” could cause an explosion of
negative and alienated emotions to a young soul like mine? It is a subtle way to shun away the
spirit of unity in humanity, but not subtle enough for a young child “not” to notice. “So, I am an
Alien apparently.”
Dad’s stories of south; I’m outraged.
Dianne Goodwin Brant,
Cambria, CA.
My Dad used to travel to South Carolina in the late 50s-early 60s. He told me of the segregated bathrooms, water fountains, etc. I cried myself to sleep at the injustice. Things are changing, but not enough to suit me yet.
It’s not racist, it’s segregated here.
Amanda Rae,
Houghton, MI.
I go to college in a very predominantly white city at the northern tip of Michigan. Here the student population is massively more diverse than the town around it. There are few black people but many Chinese and Indian students. There are no rules separating the different groups but we see little mixing. Each area of the library, groups on campus, or even parts of buildings are common for separate races. Here there is less outward racism than the systematic. There is a complacency with the separation and an expectation for it.
Segregated, excluded, divided along racial lines
Charles Brantley,
Tuscaloosa, Al.
Words to describe education for African-Americans.
Original Post: segregated, excluded, divided along racial lines, diminished, extenuate, unqualified.
Then: legally integrated, socially segregated. Now?
Joan Goldbach
Winter Park, FL
When I was in high school, the classrooms were integrated. The cafeteria, though, was segregated – by choice, not school mandate. Please tell me that this isn’t the case anymore.
Equality Promoter Becomes Racially Inferior
Amy Blue
Tulsa, OK
As a white girl in a top-ranking and racially diverse high school, I could not understand why the student population segregated itself racially. I saw all of my classmates as equals and felt a strong sense of responsibility to make others see their classmates in the same light. I climbed out on a socially-unpopular limb, trying to unify (mostly) two student populations: the white kids who, at lunch and after school, hung out in the back of the school and rarely took part in the school’s extra-curricular activites… and the black kids who hung out in the front of the school and were happy to be surrounded by their own race in a school with a traditional black history. The front of the school is where you found the school’s homecoming queens and the star athletes. In the beginning, I felt it was my responsibility as a white girl to prove to other whites that black kids weren’t bad… because it was the blacks who were discriminated against. But, as my social network of black friends grew, I soon realized that the black kids discriminated aginainst the white kids just as much as the whites against them. But, for my black classmates, their self-segragation was rooted in a deep history of civil rights violations. I believe they felt not only a willinglness to segregate themselves from the school’s white population, but a responsibility to do so. It was a matter of pride. The school we attended was a purveyor of the American Dream for children of all races. Everyone knew they were going to be successful in the real world and chose to spend their high school years enjoying time with their like-skinned peers, not wasting time on race relations. After college I joined the American workforce. My first job paid $18,000 a year and required 60-hour work weeks, but I was doing what I loved to do. My next job paid $25,000, my wealth of professional knowledge grew and I was working a measly 50 hours a week. I watched others in my industry come and go. The heavy workload and low pay was a deterrant and some just weren’t good enough to keep their jobs. But even as I tried to prove myself and my worth as an over-achieving employee, eraching for the next level of my career, something disturbing began to happen. My colleagues, who had less experience, less knowledge and fewer skills were snapping up the jobs I wanted. Even people who had been fired for incompetence were being placed in jobs well beyond their competence level. The reason? They were minorities. One of my Asian friends told me I should change my name to something more ethnic. Perhaps that would help me land one of those coveted jobs. So, it seems, the tables have turned for this white girl. The discrimination I am feeling now is rooted in that same deep history of civil rights violations… only now it’s grown a new branch. This is the first time I’ve ever shared my story or my feelings because I, too, share a sense of pride… not for my white race but for all of the other races that have been discriminated against for so long. This is progress for them, right? This is what I wanted when I set out to desgregate the social circles of my high school, right? I wish I could leave it at that, but I can’t. When you are the one feeling the discrimination, knowing you’re being judged because of the color of your skin and your hair and your name, you feel violated. So, what’s next? Do I go out on that socially-unpopular limb again, this time fighting for myself? I don’t think so. Now I have a career to protect and a family to feed. Instead I choose to give ProPublica this short story and my six words. Equality Promoter Becomes Racially Inferior.
