Personal Narrative: I Am An African American

“I was born a poor black child” on the Gulf coast of Mississippi in Biloxi, Harrison county. It was the eleventh day of February 1961. I was delivered in the hospital at Keesler Air Force Base where my father was a lieutenant going through pilot training. My mom was now an even busier homemaker with the arrival of child number three in just 27 months.

The worker contacted Misty Black who is a friend of Brittany Hardin. Mrs. Black stated “Brittany was in a situation where her ex (well she told me they were already broken up at the time) had assaulted her. Brittany had called me after Ronita Grady had hit her so I immediately called the police and made my way to Brittany. When I arrived the OCPD were already there speaking to Brittany. The officers also spoke to me and I told him I was the one who called them. After the police left Brittany and the boys stayed with me for a couple days because Brittany was still shaken up. The boys all seemed okay, I don’t think they really knew what had just happened. Brittany thanked me for helping her, because at the time we weren’t really speaking to

“You are the whitest black girl I know”. Throughout my academic career these words have followed me. From a very early age my parents instilled a drive in me to always do my best and take pride in everything I do, because some people aren’t given the opportunity to do so. As a result, I naturally stood out from others who were not as driven. Growing up, I became ashamed about of my accomplishments and demeanor when nicknames such as “oreo” replaced the name my mother had given me because I didn’t act “black”. According to my peers, I was “dark on the outside and white on the inside.” because I “talked like a white girl” and “tried too hard in class”. I believe these undesirable circumstances have taught me the hard way to love myself.

Today was a great day, it was time for someone to make a change. Four African American college students were brave enough to start the change and they were Blair, Richmond, McCain and McNeil, they attend the same college as I do, but I don’t really talk to them as I might get caught from the professors or even my peers and can get a beaten.

I am classified as a junior but really only in my second year of college so I have at least two more years to become more assured and refined in my study of Chinese. In my level 3 Chinese course, I feel that my upcoming semester in Beijing will vastly improve my speaking and listening. I hope my plan to follow a pledge of only speaking and using Mandarin unless I’m contacting family and close friends will assist me in this challenge. I expect that my full-time language courses will also help since I will be taking twenty class hours per week focusing on comprehension, speaking, listening, and reading. I predict that being fully immersed in class and going to as many tutoring and group events will help me grow in my understanding and use of Chinese.

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

Living in Chicago in the 21st century is not a necessarily easy thing. Everyday, I live with the fear that a loved one of mines could be taken away from me at any moment. Or the fact that my life could be taken away just from walking out of my front door. I dream of going to college and making something of myself. Often, other students tell me I can not achieve my dreams because I am an African American student. I pushed and struggle so hard to prove these students wrong. Because I am African American, many people view me as just a number. And that number is 33.1%; which is the college graduation rate for Black males. I would like to be one of the many people that will increase this percent. Recently, I was given the opportunity to take part

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 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.

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,

I am Black or African American, however society wants to call it. Sometimes people that because I am a lighter complexion that I have an advantage and that is definitely not the case. Unfortunately, I can remember the first time I was exposed to racism. I was in Wal-Mart with my mother standing in line and to pass time i was reading the cover of the magazines. A Caucasian lady had the nerve to say "that n***** know how to read!" As a child I didn't understand but my mother was irate. That stuck with me for a while, and it doesn't get any better when you go into stores and you are followed because of the color of your skin. At that moment I was old enough to realize what was going on and I walked out the store. I see now what my parents meant

I have been taken by rival a tribe from my homeland and since sold to outsider white men. I have done no wrongs in my lifetime. I have served an honest life doing my upmost to provide for my family and tribe. Now, I find myself restrained in this horrific place. I am laying in not only my own feces, but the feces of nearly 100 others. I am restrained to the floor of this boat with many others that look very similar to me, yet I cannot understand them. The man to my left will not stop sobbing and speaking in what sounds like gibberish to me. Every so often he gets so enthusiastic with his sorrows that one of the white men comes down and beats him within an inch of his life, he too yelling in a language I do not

Starting on my mother’s side of the family, I will start with her mother background. My great grandmother, was black, and as far as we know he parents were black as well. However, my great-great grandmother, the mother of my great grandfather was Panamanian and my great-great grandfathers, the father of my great grandfather had a Panamanian mom and a Spanish Indian and Jamaican father. My great grandfather however called himself a British subject, he was born in Panama however lived in the British west indies. My great grandfather followed his aunt to Boston because allegedly his mother died giving birth to a younger sibling and his father remarried and the step mother and my great grandfather were unable to get along. Therefore, my grandmother would be considered

“I'm stuck between who I am, who I want to be, and who I should be.” - Unknown

New country, new life, new page. It’s those days that I start to appreciate where I am right now as I gaze at her admiringly, touching her hand gently while watching the city liven before our eyes; savouring breakfast and sitting outside of a little, cosy café where we first met. Her golden hair shines as the sunrise peaks, her electric blue eyes bright and striking. Crowds begin to swarm the ‘Big Apple’, they stare at us oddly, we’re used to it. I’m black, she’s white, I’m an immigrant, she’s not and much more are contrasting between us, what could be odder than that? “You okay, love?” Carmen asked, sensing my disturbing thoughts. I nod and smile at her with assurance but deep inside, doubts floods in as I look down at my scarred and bruised right arm hanging beside me and that’s also the day that my past life and love haunts me as the buzz of the crowd fades in the background.