Black Girl-Personal Narrative

All throughout time people have been “the other.” Pratt refers to the other as being “Someone who is perceived by the dominant culture as not belonging, as they have been

There are five words I grew up hearing continuously spoken from the mouths of my parents “Don’t take things for granted.” Unlike what many of my black friends or just black people in general can say, I grew up with everything I could ever ask for and more. My parents don’t consider themselves wealthy; instead they prefer the word comfortable. My mother grew up in segregated schools, but she also grew up in desegregated schools, of which her experience she said wasn’t bad for her. In 5th grade when they first combined whites and blacks it was just her and this other black boy in class and the both of them together were mistaken for being white because of how light their skin was. My father on the other hand had it much worse than my mother segregated or not. The stories he speaks of still to this day

Too black for the White kids, yet somehow too white for the Black kids, oh the perils of a cappuccino mixed race kid. But it’s true. My life since I was young, at least younger than my eighteen year old self, has been about which group do I most fit in with. Between the four school changes over the course of twelve years, all in white suburban towns I’ve molded myself into an array of characters.

I am an African American. You must be wondering what’s my name since im “black”, you might be thinking that its ghetto, right? No need to know where I came from, you must think that I come from the projects right? It’s not like it’s important to you. You probably think that my future plans are that I won’t finished high school and that I will become pregnant. One look at the color of my skin is all it takes. Right? Look again.

Painted Girl put her bags down on the counter, tired from a long day at work. Tizio was great. He’d taken her to his uncles place and they’d spent a wonderful day ordering things from his antique store. She looked around the kitchen. Chinese takeout littered the countertop but no one had cleaned up. She picked up a note.

I wake up and remember that the All Blacks are playing this morning, so I jump out of bed and went to the lounge where I find my brother Jaycob with his All Blacks shirt on, already to watch the game, he had already got his break-fast. So I go and make myself some toast and go sit on the couch and then Clare came in and sat down to watch the game. We waited for the game to start.

A few months ago I found out about Oskar’s plan. I first received a call from a woman named Abby Black who wanted to talk to him. He wasn’t home at that time, so she explained to me what had happened. Apparently, he visited her not so long ago looking for answers for a key he found inside a vase in his father’s closet. I didn’t know what to believe, so I went to his room looking for evidence. He’s a smart kid and hiding secrets has always been one of his specialties. I looked everywhere, but couldn’t find anything until I opened one of his top closet doors. I was surprised with what I discovered. Everything was there, the 472 “Black” names listed in chronological order starting from Aaron Black; a map with their location and a notebook with the time and years it would take him to meet them all.

I interviewed an African American male in his 50s. This means he is in the middle adulthood stage of life. One of the biggest challenges that he faces is being black in America. He seemed to have a whole lot to say about this concept and struggle that he faces. Every day, all over the country, criminal activity is happening at a seemingly higher and higher rate. The evil that inhabits the globe can never be ended. There are few people, still, who choose to try. The police, the government, the news teams, all of these groups of people are supposedly dedicated to awareness and driven to push crime down to a minimum by alerting the people and keeping the peace. A self-governing species as they are, humans are prone to error, fallibility, and imperfection,

Imagine the news headlines filled with nothing but people like you - same hair, skin, defining features - except all the headlines are filled with death. Death at the hands of people we are all taught to trust with our safety. This is how my 2015 summer had been. Days upon days of headlines with black people being killed by “peace” officers. As the list of names grew longer, it became apparent that there was no intention to protect the black community, instead, the public was being “protected” from us. Growing up in a community of minorities, I had come to believe that there was a sense of solidarity in our struggles. I was wrong in thinking our shared status meant unity. At the core of every marginalized community, is a sense of anti-blackness. This harsh realization happened during a class discussion when everyone was throwing into my face that ultimately my feelings and thoughts did matter. I was reminded that I was an other and I stood alone in this fight for my community.

I grew up here in the U.S.A and my parents from the U.S also. I live in an ethnically diverse community that the residents show a deeper understanding of their ancestry’s culture. The term of senses that I witness is sight and audio. Since on the daily basis I hear, people speak other languages such as Spanish, Korean, Chinese, Hindi, Arabic, French, and Japanese. In the term of sight, I see who are from Asian background bow to each, African American nod at each other when walking pass, and people just slight smiling at each other. From my culture since I am African American we really do not that many of greeting each other. We would slight nod or smile and make eye contact or for the males who do a doing the handshake and shoulder bump maneuver.

Every person identity with their known heritage. For myself, I identity myself as African American or black because that is what I have been told for a young age I should identity with. I am envious of everyone who can trace their heritage back and proudly pronounce their ethnic group instead of using a generic term for their racial group. For example, my supervisor is Spanish and German but raised in France. The scenic designer is Portuguese and English. Lastly, an assistant stage manager is British but was raised in American.

When I was a little boy my mom, dad, and three little siblings lived in a in a small dimly lit cabin owned by a white man. He owned the endless fields and all of the sharecropper cabins upon it. My dad was one of the many sharecroppers who worked the land the white man owned. He rented the small plot of land in return for a portion of the crops we harvested to be given to the landowner. Our lives were hard; we worked in the fields and had very little to live on. We were poor, and to make it worse we were black.

First, I’d like to start off this question by saying when I attend Huntington University in the fall of 2016, I plan on starting and participating in a pep band for the home basketball games. As a Horizon Leader, I can offer a different perspective of any stereotypes anyone may have already made. Since I am biracial with White and African American, I am apart of extremely different cultures in my everyday life. As a Horizon Leader I can inform and influence current students on the cultures I am exposed to, that they may not be. As a minority, I feel like it is my job and responsibility to be the representation of the Black community. But not only the black community, but the multiracial community as well, because being multiracial is a culture

Is it worth being tracked by dogs to become a free person? I am a black woman I've

Everybody was pulling up, we were about 3 cars deep. It didn’t take long before we were back on the rode on our way to the Country Club. When we pulled up it happened to be empty. This angered me and the hood so we decided to go to Pack, which is the Pack boys’ place of residence. When we were riding around looking for them, we ended up seeing the same one I talked to at the store. We pulled up on the side of him and basically he pleaded the fifth. The only information we got out of him was that everybody went home and they didn’t want problems with us anymore. This again angered me and the hood, but there was nothing we could do besides go home. One of our cars had split up from us and took a different route to the