This post reflects the opinions of the author and not necessarily those of PERIOD.
When I started kindergarten at my first public school, I had no concept of race or ethnicity. I had no idea that I was something called “biracial.” I didn’t know why when I walked down the hallway, people would sometimes look at me in a way that was different compared to how they looked at my peers. One day, when I was eating lunch with my new friends in the cafeteria, an older girl came up to our little group and asked if I spoke English. She also wondered where I was from. When I said the name of my hometown, she (and many others) said, “no, like where are you from from?”
Every day, I would walk into a white-majority classroom. Whenever I stroll around our town, I never really saw anyone else who looked like me. I would never see ads with people of my race featured in them, never see biracial models or high achieving people that were like me. I didn’t think anything of it; it was almost normal.
I remember one time in third grade, around MLK Day, we were talking about racism and inequality. During break time, a girl came up to me and told me that she wished our countries were still segregated so she wouldn’t have to be in the same class as me. Her words shocked me and I wish I had been strong enough to say something. But what could a 7 or 8 year old do?
Later that year, while we were sitting in the computer lab doing a school survey for the state, I was faced with a list of races to choose from.
‘White, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, Black and Pacific Islander. What do you identify as? Check one box.’
Well, I was half white but I couldn’t just check that box. Where were the other options? I raised my hand to ask for help, and someone came over to me. I told her that my race wasn’t listed. I told her I was half white, half Indian. She told me to check off Native American (because obviously by saying Indian I couldn’t have meant that I’m from the country India).
Again, in fourth grade, I was asked, “what are you?” Not meaning, “who are you?”, but “what are you made of?” When I responded with, “I’m half white and half Indian,” I was followed with the question, “Oh, what tribe?” I’d respond, “No, not a tribe, like from the country India, Indian.” I was asked that on multiple occasions and each time I would get the same follow-up question.
In fifth grade I was doing an art project and was asked to pass someone the crayon next to me. “Which one?” I asked. “The skin colored one,” they responded, probably thinking nothing of it. It was a light cream colored crayon that looked nothing like my skin color but everything like theirs. I can recall several times where this same question was asked, and every time I would just want to disappear, hoping that no one would say anything. Because for some reason, I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed to look different. To be pointed out.
Flash forward to seventh grade, where I found myself in a situation almost identical to the one that I had in elementary school. But that time, I didn’t feel ashamed, simply responding with, “that’s not my skin color, could you call it something else?”. They replied with “it’s not a big deal.” and “it doesn’t even really matter.”–a response from a person who isn’t directly affected, a person who was a light, cream colored crayon.
A few months ago, I had my first drive for my Driver’s Ed class. I was sitting in the back seat of the car while my partner was at the wheel. We were talking about school and I mentioned that I was taking Spanish as an elective. My instructor started talking about how it was so stupid to take a language. She asked me why I was taking it and I said that I wanted to be able to communicate with more people in our country and in my school. I wanted to travel and to be able to understand various cultures.
She said, to my dismay, that if people are in our country, they should just learn to speak English so we don’t have to learn Spanish or whatever other language they speak. Then she started talking about my race. When I said I was Indian, she asked, “Are you sure? You don’t look Indian.” Am I sure? I mean I don’t remember my mom giving birth to me, but I’m sure that’s what happened, and I’m sure she’s my biological mom.
Racism is real and difficult, but as we face these uncomfortable moments, we create spaces to stand up, educate, and learn from each other.
