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White Jewish girl in a bubble

Emily Einhorn,
Beachwood, OH.

Whenever there is talk about racism, a part of me feels guilty. I have lived in a small suburb my entire life. In this town, people joke you’re either black, Jewish, or Asian. I have never witnessed a racist act and I feel as if I’ve missed out on being a part of a prominent aspect in American culture. I have never felt targeted as a Jew and I have never seen any of my friends be targeted for the color of their skin. I am taught that, that is not how America really is and as ridiculous as it sounds I want to have the opportunity to stand up for what I believe is wrong. I hate feeling like a lucky little white girl.

Born privileged, living poor. Gained perspective.

rainforestElizabeth Foster,
Little Rock, AR.

Growing up in a mostly-white suburb of Chicago, I was isolated from cultural and socioeconomic differences. Through my privilege, I was able to travel to countries both more and less affluent than that of my upbringing. Now that I live independently & make much less money than my parents, I live in “the hood” & appreciate my life exactly as it is. I have the perspective of many walks of life, and now realize both how good, and how ignorant, I had it growing up. My wish is for others to be able to walk both sides of the fence to reach a better understanding of their fellow Americans.

The Truth Spoken Behind Closed Doors

Anonymous,
Miami, FL.

Though I was born and Raised in a suburb a few miles south of Miami, Florida. My mom and dad are from Ethiopia and Sudan respectively. As a child, I’d say about 99% of the community were “white”. During middle and high school it shifted to about 49% “white”, 49% Hispanic and now it’s 99% Hispanic.

Over the years, there have been several occasions talking with friends, parents of friends and honest strangers, where I’ve had the opportunity to hear “The Truth Spoken Behind Closed Doors”.

During these specific conversations, friends, parents of friends, and strangers have made statements such as “you’re a smart black guy” and “you’re not like the other [blacks]”, then proceed to criticize the ‘other’ blacks, like it was nothing. A girl I was dating in high school, said her dad wanted to talk with me (we were on the phone). He wanted to speak with me because he knew I was black. After a few seconds on the phone he questions “You don’t sound black?”, then goes on to explain to me how his wife (who was Cuban) didn’t like the idea of her daughter dating a black man, but that he (Italian) had no problem with it.

What I’ve found over the years is that many people are not racist per se, but instead, perhaps those who are not black (and even blacks themselves) are somehow convinced that blacks are inherently less than. In other words, it seems people simply distaste darker skin. In order to protect their image of themselves as “good people”, it seems as though they either subconsciously or intentionally convince themselves that blacks are “bad” as to support their line of thinking.

Here’s why I say that. I put a couch up for sale on Craigslist. Three students from the University of Miami came to pick it up. They were three girls from China who just came the the United States for the first time. I’m 6’4″ and dark, they came in the house (on the bus) and asked if I can help them bring it to their apartment. So here we all are, driving in my SUV. We start talking about the weather and they remark how it’s too hot in Miami. One girl said “There’s too much sun. I don’t want to get dark”. I proceeded to ask why she didn’t want to get darker (basically a tan). She said, that being dark is bad. She said in China if you have lighter skin people show you more favor, get better jobs, etc…. mind you, this had nothing to do with black people! As a matter of fact, once we got to the apartment we all chatted a bit and they made some snacks.

I guess the question remains, Are you a ‘bad person’ if you do not like or want to be associated with those having dark skin? Are you a ‘bad person’ by making statements such as “blacks are lazy”, “blacks are (fill in the blank)”? Apparently not.

From my experience, people are pretty comfortable talking about blacks in a negative light. I know, because I’ve had the truth spoken to me, from behind closed doors.

Latina raised in the suburbs….Wepa

Brenda Enid Mejias,
Honeybrook, PA.

True Puerto Rican girl…..
I am the one with all the family recipes…
And I love being her.

Wepa– According to Urban Dictionary
A word of jubilation that is uttered by mainly Hispanics, especially within the Puerto Rican community. It normally is yelled at high volumes in a nasal manner, especially after something that is celebrated. “Wepa” normally means, “All right! Good job! Congratulations! Yeah!”

When saying, “Wepa!,” you must hold the “e” for the longest amount of time, and “a” for just as long. Variations are also acceptable.

Pronounced: Weh – pah; you must say it nasally or there is no true jubilant effect.
Student 1: I just a 98 on my Chemistry final!
Student 2: All right, man! WEPA!

Puerto Rican singer: ¿Estamos listos? (Are we ready?)
Audience: WEPA!!!!

Priest: I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.
Attendee: WEEEEEEEPAAAAAAAAAAAAA! (applauding the couple as he says it)

Hi. You must be the nanny.

image1 (1)Mayra Cramer,
Menlo Park, CA.

I’m a brown typically Hispanic looking upper middle class woman living in an affluent suburb of San Francisco. I’ve allways had a hard time fitting in because I was raised in “white” neighborhoods and went to elite and desirable schools. My third child is fair and people in the street or grocery including other Hispanics assume I am her nanny-stereotypes of nationality and socio economic class are alive and we’ll and thriving in a Silicon Valley

White, privellged, and aware of it.

Grant Peters,
Orange, CA

I come from a wealthy suburb of the Bay Area in CA. I grew up in a bubble of sorts that lacked much-needed diversity to open myself up to other viewpoints. It wasn’t until my parents got divorced, and my mother had to move to a much lower socio-economic area that this bubble popped for me. I became very aware VERY quickly of my privilege as a white male. Of course, I’m also aware that this privilege is something that never leaves me, and just because I’m aware of it does not justify the problem at hand. I strive to fight with others who have not been given the same opportunities that I have. I musty use my privilege to support others in different backgrounds than my own. Most importantly I must listen, and allow others to have a platform to speak which I already have.

Why the wink and the gun?

MarkOvermannMark Overmann,
Washington, DC.

I grew up in a mostly white suburb north of Cincinnati, Ohio. My grade school was not diverse. I remember one black classmate in my year – we played baseball and basketball together – and one girl of Asian descent, but that’s about it. My high school was more diverse, but not by much.

When I was 15 and a half, going on 16, I enrolled in a driver’s ed course, as everyone at that age does. The driving school was in a diverse neighborhood that was also central to many other neighborhoods – so the school drew students from a variety of different places and backgrounds. Which meant a variety of races. Which meant I was in class for the first time with a lot of black students.

I didn’t think much about this in the broader sense of racial politics or diversity. But I do remember being aware of it, aware of the details, like the way my black classmates talked to one other, interacted with the teacher, and approached the learning environment – which was often different than what I was used to at my mostly white school. Not wildly or uncomfortably different, but different enough that I can, 18 years later, still remember being in that classroom.

One day in class, the teacher asked a question. I couldn’t tell you what that question was, but I guess I knew the answer, so I volunteered. I was correct, and the teacher said well done. I remember one of my black classmates turning around and praising me for my correct answer. I don’t remember exactly what he said, and I don’t remember his particular tone or intention. Meaning, he might have been actually praising me, or maybe he was gently giving me shit for being a know-it-all, or more likely somewhere in between. Just one teenager talking to another.

And anyway, that’s not really important. What’s important – and what I do clearly remember – is my reaction. I gave him the wink and the gun. You know, the wink and the gun: that gesture in where you stick out both hands like mock guns, thumbs raised and pointer fingers pointed ahead, while winking and making a little clicking sound with your tongue and your back teeth. The reaction to this was instantaneous: raucous laughter all around. Someone yelled with glee, “Oh, he gave you the wink and the gun!” The teacher called for order, things quieted down, and class continued.

I was left burning with some combination of embarrassment and confusion. Why the wink and the gun? Why did I just decide on a gesture I’d ever done before and probably haven’t done since (at least non-ironically)? Did I think this was something black kids my age did? Did I think it would make me “cool” with him? Did I just not have any idea how to relate to a black peer, so I crashed around searching for something, anything, I thought to be appropriate?

In the grand scheme, a small moment. But one that has, for whatever reason, stuck with me. I’m not even sure there’s a broader point here. But if there is, maybe it’s this: when we’re getting to know people different than ourselves (different race, gender, neighborhood, country, culture, etc.), it’s probably best to just be ourselves. And maybe even more importantly, best to allow those we’re getting to know to be themselves too—and avoid imposing upon them our own (likely erroneous) notions of who they are.

Oh, and also, don’t give the wink and the gun. To anyone. It makes you look like an idiot.

Thought it didn’t matter. It does.

Avery,
Chicopee, MA.

I’m white, but many of my friends growing up were children of color. I always thought that we were treated the same because nobody was overtly racist. Then I started educating myself and learned about concepts like dog-whistling and microaggressions. I was stunned to realize that I had been totally wrong the whole time–white people in my “diverse” suburb were just as racist as the “uneducated country people” they spoke of with disdain. Further, I realized that I wasn’t exempt from this; I had been just as guilty of some of these subtle acts of racism as the people around me. “Race doesn’t matter” is a nice pipe dream, but in today’s world, it isn’t accurate. We’re all complicit in racism and white supremacy, and the best thing I and other white people can do is recognize that.

Recovering Southern Privileged White Girl

Tiffany,
Indianapolis, IN.

I was born and raised in Atlanta, Georgia. But I grew up in the middle class suburbs. My schools were overwhelmingly white. Black was something you saw on the news, heard about from others or saw on Marta. I grew up in a neighborhood where ding dong ditch was called N-word Knocking. I don’t even know why. I grew up reading Black Sambo and Uncle Remus stories. In high school there were a couple of black people amongst 4,000. They all “acted white” so we were comfortable with them. Districts were rezoned my sophomore year and we suddenly had 50-60 more black people who didn’t “act white”. Fights began to break out daily between the white (redneck, confederate flag toters) and the black kids from “the other side of the tracks”. I began to learn that black people were violent, loud, possibly dangerous. After high school, I would only interact with black people in downtown.

Sometimes as beggars accosting me for money, once as a man who picked my pocket. Between these few interactions and the media portrayal, it became clear that black men were something to fear.

When I was 21, I moved to Indiana. There’s less racial tension here. Definitely less racist talk. I’ve become a liberal, a feminist, a believer that we are all ultimately the same and that race is not what makes someone dangerous. I know now that I was seeing only part of the picture. I know I don’t have to explain to anyone here why my previous beliefs were wrong. I know, on a logical level, that black men are not dangerous… but I can’t let go of the reaction. I hate myself a little bit every time I have to fight the temptation to lock my car door when I see a black man walking down the street. I hate myself a little bit every time I’m afraid to walk on the sidewalk beside a black man. I hate myself a little bit every time I make any of these assumptions based on race. And I try to force myself to make eye contact and smile instead, to refuse to give in to my knee jerk reactions, but… I just wish the day would come that they would go away. I wish I truly could let go of my past and see people as just people, without having to force myself to do so.

I teach. I build relationships with students.

Sarah Brookner
Minneapolis, MN

I am a white female. I grew up in a wealthy suburb of Minneapolis. My students are mostly Somali, African American and Mexican American. They all have different needs. I care deeply about all of them. Some days are hard for me to connect and relate to their experiences, which are so different than my own. But I try everyday. Some days are not about math, reading or science. They’re about helping a student in crisis. Building relationships.

You talk white. Where you from?

Profile-BoatKelli Watson,
Chicago, IL.

I grew up in a predominately white suburb in Chicago. We were the first black family to move to my block in 1987 and one of a handful in the school district. Around the age of 10 or so, I started to get this question over and over, “you talk white. Where are you from?” And it always came from other black folks … of all ages. The second I opened my mouth–whether I needed my sandwich dressed at Subway or was just shooting the breeze with other people–I’d get some variation of “you speak proper” or “you’re really articulate, always followed by where are you from.

My dad grew up on the West Side of Chicago, my mom on the South Side. I didn’t speak any differently than they did. I found myself getting more and more upset over the years. I knew who I was and was proud of being me, a young African American girl with a great family a great education. I always told people that I speak like an educated individual. And just as people have regional accesnts, I speak no differently than everyone else around me. What saddened me was that so many black people were adopting stereotypes suggesting “proper, educated or articulate” could only be associated with whiteness, and further, a perceived hatred for who I was.

Junior High was perhaps the worst. The beginnings of white flight started to take place in my town. Black families from the city were moving in and white families were moving out. And there was some clear culture shock. On nearly a daily basis I was called an Oreo (black on the outside, white on the inside). The new kids were telling me that I not only spoke white, but wanted to BE white. And I was having a WTF moment each day. To adapt, one of the black girls I grew up with started changing to connect with the kids, even introducing me as mixed. “That’s Kelli. She’s mixed,” she told the new girl boarding the school bus. The new kid couldn’t believe it. This chocolate brown girl is half white? “Really?” she asked. “No, she just acts white.” That field trip ended with a trip to Dairy Queen where I ordered my favorite…an Oreo blizzard. And you can only imagine the response that elicited. I decided to keep my mouth shut around them, so they didn’t have anything to talk about.

I later signed up to do our school’s daily radio announcements and was pretty good at it. I realized that there was power in public speaking and that I wouldn’t let anyone silence me again. After three years of being picked on, I grew the courage to stick up for myself. Interestingly, by high school, many of those girls apologized. I went on to study broadcast journalism and became a TV news reporter before transitioning into corporate communications.

Those experiences shaped who I am and I think about them often. Words have so much power, and the right message can change mindsets—even unconscious ones. However, you can’t impact positive change by being silent.

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.

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