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Hey Dominicans! You too are black.

My_FB_PicCristina Reyes,
Houston, TX.

I chose the six words I wish I could go around the streets of Santo Domingo yelling. I have never understood, in all my years, why the Dominican culture steadily continues to deny their “blackness.” Their children aren’t taught to consider themselves “negro” instead they are to consider themselves “indio.” The darker the skin the uglier person, the straighter the hair the prettier the girl.
I love my Dominican Heritage and I am proud to be American, but what I am most proud of is that I descended from strong and beautiful Africans that despite being subjected to the most inhumane and atrocious acts in history, their legacy can be kept alive in my face and dark skin.

Too mixed too choose just one!

bangstessTess Escoto,
Citrus Heights, CA.

My roots are in Texas and Mexico. While some may look at me and say that I appear to be Latina, often they aren’t sure. My father’s last name is of Italian origin and my grandmother and grandfather (paternal) both had blue eyes and black curly hair. My mother’s family is proud to be a mix of Native American and Texan heritage. I married a man who is African American, Filipino and Russian. I am amazed at the possibilities and love every difference that I see in those I meet. I could never choose just one race for any future kids I have. Let them choose and be proud of everything they are!

I am the ‘perfect’ eldest grandchild

Jordan Esparza,
Houston, TX

I was always told to be the example of what to do. I come from a mixed family and everyone has the same expectations. On my dad’s side, I am supposed to represent my hispanic heritage, but on my mom’s side, I must represent my white heritage. I am the oldest compared to my younger siblings, and cousins. I am the first grandchild, the example. I was always told that I must set the example for my little cousins and siblings. I must never go against my families wishes, or I would be disappointing. My white side of the family sees me as a “burrito baby”. I was called that since I’ve been born. I call myself white because I am white passing, even though I have much more heritage than the average white person. I am the ‘perfect’ eldest grandchild, that calls herself white because I’m scared of what everyone else will think about me. No 17 year old should worry about what race she is.

Beauty, brains, sheltered, judge and envied but loved

Nevaeh Shorter,
Irving, TX

These six words sketch the real texture of my days as a Black girl growing up. People often tell me I’m beautiful and clever, and I’m proud of both, but I move through a world that still casts shadowy judgments and expects me to prove myself at every turn. I’m sheltered in some moments protected by family and friends who want me safe but I’m also pushed to push beyond comfort, to speak up, to show up, to excel. A judge watches my every move, deciding who I am before I can show who I am, and I feel the weight of that gaze in public, on the street, at work . Some envy the doors I hope to open, the opportunities I pursue, though they don’t see the late nights, the careful choices, the fear-of-failure that rides along. Yet through it all I am loved—by family, friends, mentors—reminding me that my worth isn’t defined by others’ opinions but by the resilience I bring to each day.

My Tenth Birthday Was Super Awkward

Wilson Sunny,
Sunnyvale, TX

I was born September 11th, 1991. Ten years later, a great national tragedy happened within the United States that shook the nation to the core. It was the first time, I believe, the term “terrorist” became a mainstream word. Not when Timothy McVeigh decided to blow up a building in Oklahoma City. Nor would Americans be called as such when they were first involved with fighting in the Middle East during the Gulf War. It’s only reserved when nations decide to attack America. But, I digress. When we learned about the attack, everyone was in shock. Once the shock subsided, anger arose. Anger for people who look a specific way. For those who wear a specific type of clothing, or for those who have a specific skin tone color. A color that I have. While the anger never led to physical violence in my life, it did lead to snide comments, especially with a birthday tied to the event. Others would ask “was that a gift from Uncle Osama?” The problem with the joke is I am not Middle Eastern. My parents were born in the South of India. But we were all just blindly melded together. I should be grateful that no physical harm came towards me. But, I know that there are those who did have to suffer persecution for events they had no hand in. Just as Japanese Americans had to face in the 1940’s. And just as those that have suffered after the 2016 election…

A “white girl” with a unique heritage

IMG_5747Ashlyn Rachelle Sharp,
Azle, TX.

I hate the term “typical white girl”. Why does a girl whose taste buds enjoy pumpkin spice lattes have to be categorized automatically in some stupid stereotype? I may be “white”, but my heritage is so much more than just a typical white girl. My veins are flowing with the blood of my family going back centuries; Irish, German, Native American(Cherokee), Spanish, black dutch, and english…When did a wonderful heritage such as this become such a rude stereotype of #basicwhitegirl? I have been rooted in my multi-faceted heritage since I was born, and I’m not basic, I’m me.

Yes, that is his daughter, too.

Dania Abreu-Torres
San Antonio, TX

My husband and I are Puerto Ricans. I am more “white” than he is -He usually was mistaken as a muslim-. We have a blonde, blue eyed girl. In Florida, he use to take her to the supermarket. He was followed by a lady and asked if the baby was really his daughter. He looked at her confused and then understood. He just replied: “Yes, don’t you see the resemblance? Especially the eyes?”, and then laughed. The woman was more confused, but did not replied and stopped following. I was so surprised, but, of course, race in the US is read from the color, never from ethnics.

When your blueprint is pretty funny

Jilly Bean,
Houston, TX

The blueprint for my life was etched from a very young age. I was told constantly by everyone that I was pretty and that I was funny. My sister on the other hand was told she was smart, intelligent, a genius. She was told that she was going to go so far in life. Me, I was just pretty and funny. When I didn’t do something well I would hear the comment, “well at least she is pretty”. That stayed with me, affected me, and shaped me. Making sure I was good at being pretty and funny was at the forefront of my being. It was an underlying trigger for my diagnosed ocd and anxiety. To this day the comments have not changed. Your so pretty, your so funny, your such a good cheerleader….. and so that is where my focus stays

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