Personal Narrative-Racism

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

Truth to be told: I don’t particularly pay attention to national events or issues. My family is also incapable of comprehending national issues, especially my parents who do not have any level of proficiency in English. My family lives in a world where we go with the flow, but there are issues that I contemplate whether or not I should be involved in, particularly race inequality. Considering the amount of tension between policemen and African-American around the nation, the race to equal treatment is still ongoing.

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.

Racial Inequality Situation : A black man in jail thinking about the unfair society I had a pencil the year I came to jail It wore out in a week from writing Penning down my thoughts for all I can Crying in the jail cell counting the bars I sat down on the cold floor with many scars I was all alone No family, no friends, separated from home

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 black. I feel like I always be constrained due to my race. I’m proud to be black and love that im black. Being blacks haves it benefits. Thought out history we is as being strong and can get thought a lot of things. A lot of people doubt us but us proving them wrong. Black people are making history in many different ways, ways that you never thought would happened. We our getting degrees. We our becoming presidents. Building and owning our own business. We doing thing that people thought we wouldn’t do. The only thing about my race is that a lot of us our getting killed by cops. They say it not a race thing but to me it is. Every day you see an example of this on the news. A white person kill cop or just people. They just get handcuff

“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’d like to say I’m a very unique person. Not because of my hair, the way I dress, or how I look, but because of the unique things I bring with the person I am. All my life I’ve been the minority. From my preschool, to my church, my elementary and high school. Being black is something I embrace. I love my melanin skin tone, my nappy hair and I love teaching others about being a young black educated women. It hasn’t always been like that though. For majority of my life I use to try and fit in with the crowd. I use to always wear my hair straight so I could look like the girl standing next to me. My natural hair was beautiful too my mom and everyone else around me, but I felt like I had to step up and wear my hair straight everyday just to feel

Hello my name is Trenard Jackson. I’m 20 years of age I am from Prattville, Al . I will be telling you about my experience of being black. Being raised by a single mother of 5 boys but also by my father of many wives and 3 mixed race kids. I never could actually find myself or at least I didn’t know how to. I always had diverse friends. Growing up I would visit my white friend house almost every weekend and they taught me how to present myself as a intelligent young man I am today. When I left they’re house I would go back home to this dysfunctional home I would be taunted with words from my older siblings with words like “ did you have fun over your white friend’s house.” or things like “did you enjoy your new family”.

It was lunch time and I was sitting with Gordy. Everybody was talking about this new guy and how he scared them. Gordy asked me

I am white. I have been white ever since I found out that there is a distinguished difference between the way I look and the way the girl sitting next to me does.. Prior to being taught that racism is a strong issue and that there is a dissimilarity between people that is so controversial, I would have never thought anything more (or less) of the opposite skin color. All around the world, for as long as any history textbook can date back to, race is one of the most debated issues that has never come to a consensus to make everyone happy. Maybe there is a reason for that. Maybe race will always be an occurring issue that everyone needs to handle. There are people different from you, as well as the same, and that will never change but rather than fighting it… Everyone should take the time to learn about and embrace it.

One day in the fifth grade, I was in the car with my grandparents. As my grandparents were having normal conversation, I sat in the back thinking about every negative comment my grandma has made about my family. My mother is Caucasian and my father is African American. They were always open about my grandma’s disagreement for our biracial family. My grandma never bluntly made a racist comment to me about my father. The comments would be hidden and it would take me ten minutes to realize something racist had been said. At this time she was making a comment about how my father does nothing but lay around all day. Finally after sitting back in silence for a long time, I snapped. I went on this full rant about how she never had anything good to say about my dad. He was working third shift for BMW, of course he would sleep during the day. By now I was screaming and crying. My grandpa had this stunned look to his face. His eyes were wide and his mouth was hanging open. My grandma’s face was the opposite: her face was bright red and her beady little eyes were shooting daggers at me. She was livid.

My interpretation to racism is different from most looking at me I am white however, I have a mixed mother, and my mother side is mixed. Being with my family and, listening to their story’s. I have noticed racism is ignorance on both sides with closed hearts and, minds however, for me I see the potential for good making me the perfect emissary for bother worlds.

Boom! The gun blasts to begin the race, and we are off. This is it, the starter shoots the pistol into the brisk, fall air. I smell the raunchy, old water that sits stagnant right in the middle of the rutted course. I am wearing my brown, Mount Carmel singlet and shorts, along with my bright, orange spikes that are covered with brown water, due to the puddle I just trampled through. My feet are completely numb; it is almost like they are not attached to my sore ankles any longer. I feel a snug pull on my quad, which makes me wonder if I stretched properly. I bolt through the tall grass, while it brushes my glistening legs. My stomach is turning as I begin the race with a long stride. I hear the thunderous cheering surrounding me, but I cannot focus on anything but Coach’s determined words being continuously reiterated in my head: “Run your own race and lay it all out on the course!” Almost a mile into the three mile race, my body is

I was down at the street races on a warm summer night. The dark purple sky was lit up by