Personal Narrative: I Am Racist

As a first-generation Mexican American, I am the product of two cultures merged into one. Like many immigrants, my parents left behind their homeland and came with just the clothes on their back. They were fish out of water when they first arrived in America. They came here with hopes of pursuing the American Dream but soon realized that they weren't going to be the ones to achieve the American Dream. They worked hard so that my younger brother and I could have a shot at it. So they’ve educated us and passed the Dream along to us. The hardships experienced by my parents have inspired me to take on my own challenges. Because of the sacrifices my parents made, I am where I am today. It's an unspoken responsibility that one day I will give back to those who gave me so much.

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 am a spoiled rich kid. I live in an upper middle class town located in one of the prosperous countries in the world. I attend to a competitive school with qualified teachers who care about their students. I have seemingly endless opportunity to participate in my community or gain experience in a job. I have fair skin, living in a world where is being Caucasian is advantageous.

As I have blossomed into the individual I am today I have developed a significantly different outlook from most of my peers. My mother migrated from Colombia to the United States because she wanted to create a better life for my older brother and me. Her journey inspires me and it a journey which many individuals with Latino backgrounds have to undergo to have the polity to give their children education possibilities. The sacrifice that my mother and those like her have bared have revealed to me the importance of what it means to work hard. As a family of immigrants I have developed an appreciation for those close to me. Living in the United States I see my grandparents and all of my siblings every two years, I understand what it is too mean

My Race is Caucasian. My Ethnicity is a German- American. My father was adopted from southern Germany at age of two, into an Italian military family. My mother’s parents came from southern Germany, after world War two. I grew up going to a German afterschool program, where I learned the German language and culture. I am able to speak, write, and understand a fair amount of German. I also danced and was part of a German-Bavarian club until age 12. My sex is female. I believe that my social class would be upper middle class, however, on the lower side of upper middle class. I technically live in Mount Kisco NY, however I went to Chappaqua schools. I spent all of my time in Mount Kisco, my best friend in high school, also was not from Chappaqua

“Boom”!! Immediately my parents came upstairs like they were going to go run a race, and like they were going to win.They saw my door opened. My sister came to my room with her phone, and says” should i call the doctor, or should I call 911, or wait should I go get your phone and call the doctor”. “Go get my phone, and call the doctor as quick as possible” dad reply after hearing my sister Brooklyn talk a lot. And then, they heard someone knocking on the door and that was the doctor so Brooklyn opened the door, and while she was opening the door they tried to wake me up by calling my name a millions of times.But, wait I think you want to listen to the whole story.

As a second generation Mexican, I am very proud of my Hispanic culture because it has taught me many life lessons throughout the years. As a result, I’ve tried to live my life with a supportive and courageous mindset. During my upbringing, I quickly learned that one of the most humane things a person can do is to provide support for one another. For instance, despite our lack of financial security, my family would always donate whatever they could to communal events such as funerals and church services. From these acts of kindness, I realized that materialistic items shouldn’t interfere with a person’s natural desire to help those in need. Apart from reaching out to others, I believe that having a courageous attitude is a necessity to live

Life for me hasn’t been the easiest. I am a black woman who has to support her kid. No one ever treats me fairly. My job can barely put food on the table for my handsome 4 year old son who’s name is Grayson. My house is torn up and beat down. My floor is bare with no carpet, my room plain with no bed. My son’s life is half broken by having a white father and a black mother. My deceased husband died trying to save me two months ago when two rich white men came to my house and tried to kill us. I can’t say his name anymore. Saying his name is a just a constant reminder that life for a colored woman is not as clear or perfect as a crystal staircase.

I do not particularly like when people use this phrase so lightly and to refer to something that is presumably in style. I have not used it myself, even when growing up when it used to be “acceptable”. I personally have a cousin that it’s a few years older than me and due to the era and country we grew up, the resources, for the children and the parents as well, were not available. Her disability was extremely severe strike and my aunt had to put her in an institution, even when she didn’t want to. I did hear other people using the term and it did stroke a chord every time someone would say it – even to this day.

It wasn’t a typical birth. I wasn’t a typical child. And it wasn’t a typical experience. Every day felt like an endless list of obstacles waiting to pounce on the life that I just wished was normal. From the doctors performing an emergency C-section to retrieve me to being diagnosed as asthmatic, from having eating difficulties to constantly being told I was underweight, I felt like a burden to everyone around me. If I wasn’t at the doctor’s office, waiting for the doctor to repeat over and over again on how I was under the growth charts, then I was probably puking in some car on the way home. If I wasn’t inhaling medicinal mists from a nebulizer every night to pacify my wheezing, I was most likely at the pharmacy, getting my new batch of a

Everyone says “that won’t happen to me,” but that’s what I thought. The whole journey started about 4 years ago. I woke up one morning and I didn’t feel like myself. I had this gut feeling that something was wrong. I didn’t know what, but I knew something wasn’t right. I got in the car and started driving to my doctors office in Portland. He called me back into his room and said, “What can I do for you today?”

“So are you racist?” My question was followed by hesitation. After what seemed like an eternity, he responded, “I’m not going to lie to you.”

I walked down a hallway that seemed to stretch endlessly before me. The frosted glass window on the door that spelled doom seemed to stretch further away with every step I took toward it. My heart began to beat at a more brisk pace, my palms began to sweat, and my eyes narrowed on the shiny clean brass doorknob. I had completely forgotten my mother was alongside me until she had to pull me back into reality. She grabbed my arm and tugged me forward. With slight resistance to her strong grasp we dredged on toward the door. I watched in slow motion as the doorknob turned and a giant mad scientist smiled down at me. The angle of his head allowed sadistic shadows to stretch down upon his glowing evil eyes, and his curled, sinister smile.

Amongst the jeering and bullying of my peers, I learned to be resilient, independent, and disciplined about my life and my studies—qualities that helped me land a volunteer internship at one of Canada’s leading think-tanks on economic policy, a term on a faculty committee last school year, and the opportunity to serve on the Academic Board of UofT’s Governing Council this year. Most importantly, however, my experience as an immigrant at the bottom tier of society taught me to cherish how I got to where I am today, to never forget where I came from, and to always look back and see how I can help those that came from the very same place. And although I have grown a lot since those difficult times, the lessons that I learned along the way will remain with me forever. I hope to put them to good use with an education in law and leave my little patch of the world in a better condition than I first found it

My dreams, hopes, and aspirations have been struck down. I don't see the point in self-success anymore when my country is going to self-destruct with Orange Hitler as our President.