Personal Narrative: If I Am Racist

“Get out of my car,” said my mom with a smile. Wearing an unnecessarily large backpack and reveling in the significance of the moment, I caught my reflection in the window: a young, slender boy with dark skin from my father, almond-shaped eyes from my mother, and a big smile all my own. I had a little hop in my step, pleased with what I saw. It was my first day at Thomas Jefferson High School for Science and Technology (TJ).

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 was born into a multicultural environment that allowed me to understand new perspectives and the world around me. At the start of my life, I was born into a poor Mexican family with no hope insight for a future that we could start anew. Through this, I learned humility, an understanding that no matter who we are or how we started, we can become so much more than we were before. By the time I was 5, my father and mother, poor illegal immigrants, had created an empire for themselves from the basis of a flower shop, and just like Andrew Carnegie, they became inspirations for many poor Mexicans back in my hometown of Cuernavaca, and  icons for myself. Their newfound riches provided me with ambition, a new understanding into the importance of

“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.

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

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

The school was very far away, inside this old neighborhood, and was on the other side of Columbia; while we were passing the neighborhood, I had this eerie feeling and I didn’t like it, I knew from there this isn’t going to be a fun experience. My sister, my mom, and I got inside the school and were settled in from there; my 5th grade teacher name was Karen Bowling and she was the sweetest and kindest teacher, if it wasn’t for her I probably wouldn’t get comfortable with the new school and new environment that quickly. I made a few friends but still was shy and reserved, but I made a best friend that year her name was Kathryn Hamm. She had the same thinking like I did, she was funny, and we got attached quickly but by mid year things changed. I suddenly gained a lot of weight; I started looking very healthy, I had hair on my face,

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 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.

“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.”

In life people are often misunderstood for who or what they are. Whether it being who they are or their skin, hair, personality, traits, clothing, religion, or their body. When growing up it seems no matter where I go I always see be misjudged. Usually is my skin, or the way I talk,or the way I act.

I have this fear of being demoted because the way I look. I’m in a constant battle with the questions, am I white or am I mexican? I have an identity crisis on my hands, and growing up those questions weren’t any of my concerns. During the duration of my experiences involving race I have been placed into stereotypes that deceive who I really am. I would look too “mexican” to wear that outfit or I would sound too “white” to learn Spanish. Racial categories are both confusing and senseless, yet is a significant part in our society.

I’m a high school senior from a small town in Central Washington. Since I was thirteen years old, I’ve known exactly what I want to do “when I grew up”: I want to become a professor of linguistics at a major research university. I want to research and write papers and teach. Because I have had this answer ready for so long, people started to ask me what I want to specialize in. I’d say that I wasn’t sure, but perhaps an indigenous language family in Central America, because I already spoke Spanish and had studied the culture and politics of the region. Then it struck me: what has made me who I am does not have to be what I become.

My parents have always told me that I was smart enough to do whatever I want, but I think that there is a huge difference between ability and ambition. As a little girl in elementary school, my dad encouraged me to consider becoming a lawyer or a doctor when I was older. Despite my aptitude for music, performing, and the arts, my parents noticed in me a fiery and driven disposition since I first learned to speak. It was reasonable that my parents would want the best for me. My dad was an immigrant from Vietnam who worked his way to becoming an anesthesiologist. My mother studied her way out of poverty, becoming a pediatric dentist. Since I was old enough to understand their stories, I have always adored how far my parents have come with what

The whit jelly bean fits my personality the best. Firstly white’s surroundings are very neat and organized. This fits me because my room and backpack are always clean and everything has its own place. I love being clean and organized which is one reason white fits me. Secondly whites like to know the exact requirements to their work before they start. When writing a paper or doing some other work I like to know exactly how to do what I am asked so I do not mess up. When I know the exact requirements for my work I am more confident in my work. Thirdly whites are very deliberate when making decisions. This fits me because when faced with a decision I think of all the consequence before I make my choice. When I know I made the right