My Thoughts On My Experience

Growing up I was always called a “Oreo” which means a black person who is white on the inside. In school, I was always called the white girl because I was the opposite of what the stereotypical black girl was. Constantly people would say “you’re pretty for a black girl” “you’re the whitest black girl I know” etc. I took offense to these comments, because last time I checked my skin color shouldn’t categorize how I should behave, appear, or determine my interest. My school and hometown. especially is mostly more whites than anything. I played club volleyball in high school most of the time I would be the only black girl on my team, my brother played baseball growing up, he was the only black person on his team for years, so growing up I was

As a biracial woman growing up in the South, I never knew my place in the world. My father is a dark-skinned African American and my mother is a fair-skinned Caucasian, leaving my sister and I to fall somewhere in the middle. In elementary, my unique background caused numerous personal problems. Friends would assume I was adopted. I would frantically defend myself by saying “I am not adopted! My mommy is white and my daddy is black, and there is nothing wrong with me.” My classmates often told me that I was not possible: “black goes with black, and white goes with white.” In time, both races rejected me. I was bullied by the black girls at my school for being “too white” regarding my clothes and my hair. I continued to struggle with this

Sometimes I feel like I live in two worlds. one world or life is when I was in Puerto Rico where life was effortless and elementary,lots of leisure, and so much more fun. but i also have my world and life here in Boston where is not completely obscured. in boston it is where i am asked to identify myself. it is where people ask me what am i? i have always responded with “ i am puerto rican and black.” that sounds about right my mother is puerto rican and my father is black. most people act like it is strange for me to look and talk the way i do yet not be what they thought. in either world i have never really thought deeply about my ethnic origin because i always said i am puerto rican and black american that is it and nothing more needed to

The world is over 196 million square miles that is home to over 7 billion people all with unique qualities and backgrounds. Me being a caucasian living in Lakewood Colorado I lived though the generic lifestyle of a christian. Church every Sunday and quiet family meals were normal for us but what I didn’t realise was that there was a whole world of ethnically and culturally different people just an ocean away.

While my dad is African American with black, thick, hair and strong bold features. Growing up as a biracial girl I’ve always loved my thick curly hair, light brown skin, and full facial features, and I have been unquestionably comfortable in my skin as a young girl. However, when I went to middle school I started questioning my identity. When I started to make friends they would constantly ask me. “ Do you act black or white?” At first I was too confused to answer, the question would replay in my head for the rest of the day. Do I act black or white? What does that mean? What qualifies as black or white? How do you act a skin color? Those were some of the few questions I would ask myself as their question haunted me. As school continued, I learned what acting “black” or “white” meant. To act black meant you knew all the hip-hop songs and dances, to want the newest pair of Jordan’s dropping, and to live in a one parent home. To act white meant you talked “proper”, listened to Top 40 music, and cared about the way you behaved in school, or being a “goodie two shoes”. After understanding what acting like a race meant, I was excited to know I fit some things in both descriptions. having characteristics in both, I thought I would have a better chance of making friends. Unfortunately, I was wrong. People thought that I was acting fake, or that I was “trying too hard”. My peers constantly told me that I was

I had light pale skin and hers was a bit darker. But the girl with blonde hair, or the fancy dress on didn’t look like I did either. Eight years ago this was and my knowledge on race relations has clearly gone up, but the oblivious little girl I once was is still in the back of my mind. So unaware of the world’s problems and the fact that my friends were being taught to avoid people I was intrigued to know because they were different. Why can’t everyone be accepted? What makes the color of skin such a big threat? Nine year old me was not only able to look past everything and see someone for themselves but was able be curious to know more about the person that was not like me. Thinking back, the phrase “young and naïve” may come to mind when this is truly not the case at all. I was raised by a mother to realize that people are all the same with the hopes of making it in this world regardless of anything else. I was in 3rd grade when I realized not everyone is so lucky to be accepted the way I was

The criticism continues with my skin color. Growing up in a rural area caused confusion for me at a

Even after a decade of settlement, it feels foreign to walk down the street and see someone who looks like me. Nonetheless, to have the ability to accept and respect all cultures and environments, as well as one's self, is a privilege that not many get to experience. Although there are pros and cons to being different or the same, I am forever grateful that I was blessed enough to witness all parts of the spectrum. Whether it be differences in race, religion, origin, or motive, everyone in this world is meant to make their mark somehow, and I believe that my experience with cultural differences has shaped me to be prepared for whatever the future holds. Even having lost my way at times, being so close to adulthood I can only to try and endure adversity and do/be the best that I can in this final year and future years to

When I meet someone new, this was the typical conversation. At the age of 5, I knew I was different from the other children in my kindergarten class - especially since I attend a private catholic school. My appearance consists of monochrome colors; black hair, black eyes, and pale white skin. My image is rather dull compared to the blonde hair, blue eyed girls that automatically fit in anywhere. In addition to my appearance, my lack of ability to speak or understand English made me feel even more out of place. I eventually picked up enough English by 1st grade to “blend in” with my classmates.

I always wondered if I was Black enough. My hair is kinky, curly and sticks up in all directions when I wake up. My skin is a warm, tawny brown with undertones of orange, which compliment my chestnut brown eyes. I kept especially educated on the oppression of Black people and the continuous history that seems to be perpetual . The most obvious point, my mother is African-American. Yet, because of my White father, I am considered almost everything but Black.

Diversity in America is like a salad. Each piece of the lettuce holds its own identity but the whole salad is mixed together and held in one bowl. Likewise each person has a distinct difference from one another, but we are all living in the same country.

I never knew I acted a certain way until about second grade, and I was not even quite sure what exactly acting white or black was. Like everyone else I knew stereotypes and commonalities but during the time in my life when this question was asked most I assumed it was because I did not say black things all the time or because I did no own any popular sneakers. I had none of the other necessary requirements that made a person black.

I never imagine my life would turn into a routine after my emotional lost, but there it was. Working late nights throughout the week and going home straight from work became the norm. Most nights I ate whatever was quick and simple to make, and cried until the night engulfed me.

I love to learn. I think of knowledge as having your very own super power, however I do not like all the unnecessary negative aspects of high school. Everyone says you’ll look back and wish you were still in high school; so do not try to grow up too fast. High school has opened my eyes to what is most important in my life. Every difficult experience with the help of my grandmother has shaped me to develop the willingness to look inside myself and to believe in myself.

Sitting in class for the first time, it was half of what I expected. I expected to sit by people I didn’t know, learn about old things in new lights, and writing a lot of papers. What I didn’t expect was me hating college. I am not as creative as some teaches would like, but that isn’t my personality, and I dint want it to be either. I fully expected college to try and morph me into a perfect little student that I knew I wasn’t. College so far to me hasn’t been fun and I will treat it like Wal-Mart. When I say that, I mean that I will get in and get out as fast as possible. If I pick up stuff along the way then alright, but if I don’t, then it won’t kill me.