Personal Narrative-Racism

On the afternoon of August 8th, 2016 a young girl was facing the tennis match of her life. The Girls 14s Nationals were coming to a close and the championship trophy was only 3 games and 1 set away. Everything she had dreamed for was so close, yet so far. The extremely sunny sky glared into her eyes, making it impossible to think. But she couldn’t lose hope now, if she won this match, she would be crowned the Girls 14s Nationals Champion for Tennis. All she had to do was clutch this game. Just a few more points…

During the earlier years of my tennis career, about the age of seven, my parents had learned of a nearby organization at Watkins Park Maryland. The organization was known as the Prince George’s Tennis and Education Foundation. It was here where I began to make my largest strides in my life, both academically and athletically.

The bus was silent, no one daring to speak. We had just suffered the first loss in more than 10 years to one of the competing schools to make it to the state tournament for tennis. This bus ride home from the tournament in Green Bay gave me sufficient time to reflect on my matches and on the sport as a whole.

It was the first day of practice, August 10th, and I was waiting at the courts with the others at 7:55 waiting for to start. I started to talk to others and realized that there were a lot of other new bees to the sport. The coaches split us into new and returning players. Rachel and about 20 other people went with Coach Sullivan to the back courts. She went through the basics of what tennis is, the scoring and rules. We then hit around and I realized that I wasn’t the worst person on the courts and that I did actually like the sport. That day I went home and hit the tennis balls against the wall in my garage all

The day had started off more unusual than most. Instead of sweating through a physically and mentally intense tennis match, I sat in the bed of my hotel room. After sleeping for 14 hours, the cold which had forced me to pull out of my match from the previous day still left me feeling exhausted. After my weeks of training and preparation for this tournament, the bitter loss stung like a hornet.

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.

I close my eyes as the shock wave echoes off the rocks popping, and snapping like a tree cracking. I open my eyes looking thru the scope to find the once flourishing village decimated by the explosion. SNAP! The rounds fired from the remaining insurgents buzzed over our head's like locusts. I thought to my self as I looked over the destruction. The sweat in my eyes, heart pounding as I steady my reticle at man's chest. I thought about the crucible that forged me into the person I am today.

Growing up other children would call me a nigger, zebra, or an Oreo cookie. Being bi-racial was hard and the kids were mean. Children would pick on me because my mother is Caucasian. People always have this stereotype about Caucasians because what was done to the black people ancestries. The same racism that was done to their family is the same affect they were doing to me by out casting me because of my race. Filled with rage I wanted to fight and let the frustration loose; however, my parents always told me to rise above criticism. It never helped me to resolve the issue I had with them or make me feel better. Nevertheless, I never felt a sense of belonging or where I would be accepted with a certain ethnic group. I was too light to hang

Standing on the starting line, heart was pounding, nerves were running, expectations were high, the sound of the gun could not have come any quicker. Waiting in the blazing sun, I could feel the sweat dripping down my face. Time felt like it was at a standstill, just then, boom! The race was underway on this four lap journey around the track. Silence surrounded me as I ran in a sold out stadium, my thoughts drowned out the coaches and spectators. The speech my coach gave me before the race was on constant replay in my head. “This is your time. You will be district champ. There is no one standing in the way of you and your dreams, except yourself.” When I came around the turn, I could see my team in the stands cheering me on. There was pure joy on their faces as I took the lead and began to take off for the last lap. There was half a lap to go when the race took a turn for the worst. My stomach began to turn in knots, my breathing was getting heavier, and my strides were shortening. I could sense my competitors coming up behind me, I knew that if I could not stay in front, I would lose. Eventually they caught up to me and I just tried to stay with them, however, I began to fade. I crossed the finish line in third place. I looked up and could see my coach with his head down in disappointment, I let him down. My season had come to an end that day, and I

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

Just like the guitar for Taylor Swift, writings for Ms. Lawler, Sports, especially ball games, are my things. My parents have always taught me to stay active and their love for tennis has influenced me to participate in this activity. Even though the weather in central Pennsylvania does not give me much chance to play, I always keep a racket in my room. Black and white color block with pink lines, my lovely tennis racket has been wrapped in a black velvet bag and awaits my calls to bring it back to the court. Now, whenever I hold my little tennis buddy on the field and use its supports to withstand the opponent’s attack, I recall a particular moment of my tennis lesson and a part of advice my coach gives me.

This is it. I start living in the new place. Everyone keeps saying not to go since I've only ever met this guy on Craigslist advertising this room.

Being a colored boy in Boston doesn’t bring a smile to many faces; instead it frightens, following belittlement and fury hiding behind these masks. A place where young African Americans are expected to fail, and live in the deep depths of the ghettos. Thrown into the dark corners of society, where no one gives the slightest attention, to spare a brighter future. Chaos reigns on littered sidewalks like a mother's tears. Suspiciousness leads to imprisonment, eyes watch from every street side thugs and every blue ribboned vehicle, in this community you are a target. Gang affiliation sweeps across my dusty town; the color black belongs to this “hood” or this particular logo to another. Life here revolves around these colors and shapes and surely

I sometimes like to believe I am normal. I am just a girl with the usual silly crushes, singing talents, and artistic interests. But there is one thing that supposedly separates me from the majority of what we call society. I was born color blind. Not the kind where you miss out on a few colors or have some difficulty finding variance. To me, colors were nonexistent. I never genuinely thought much of it because, well, I had been used to it for almost 14 years. When people would make remarks about the beautiful sky or my charming olive eyes, I felt abnormal like I was almost missing out on something important. But I choose not to focus on that, but focus on the horrible, I mean “interesting” day ahead of me. My first day at a new school in the

I was hot, sweaty, and tired but there was not a quitting bone in my body. The first couple of points go back and forth. Everyone is watching now. He hit a drop shot. I’m there. He hits a lob. I run so hard, I slam into the rusty fence. I cut my arm and it started to turn black and blue. After an injury time out, I was eager to get back out there. As I walk out, I noticed there were twice as many people watching now. He serves to start the tiebreaker. I quickly notice I will not be able to hit my two-hand backhand any more. I wasn’t panicked, I switched to a one-hander. I win the point. I can tell Marshall is starting to sweat and will remember my name. We go back and forth a few points now and he keeps trying to attack my new one-hander but it’s steady every time. It’s 11- all now and his dad is blue in the face; scared his prodigy was two points from losing the match. We go back and forth now and he edges the victory, 16-14, in the third set breaker. I walked away with the feeling that my dreams of playing college tennis had become a