Stereotypes: A Short Story

Racial stereotypes have always been a serious issue in society. The stereotypes impact many aspects of our life. We more or less get carried away by our perceptions toward race, and judge people in a certain frame unconsciously, as Omi set forth in In Living Color: Race and American Culture. Taken by Hilary Swift, this photo presents an African American woman, waiting for a bus that can take her to the Kitchen of Love, a food pantry that located in Philadelphia aiming to feed people suffering from hunger, where she volunteers. It happens in dawn so it’s still dark outside. The surroundings give us an idea that it should take place in a black neighborhood (Stolberg “Black Voters, Aghast at Trump, Find a Place of Food and Comfort”). The woman is staring at the direction where the bus is coming, with a smile on her face. As a photojournalistic image, this photo is aiming to portrait a kind and helpful African American woman, however, does this photo really “positively” portrait an African American woman?

The danger of a single story is that they let the powerful downgrade the weaker because they create stereotypes, they can hurt the people, and no one gets represented from the culture.

The single story is about how a people stereotypes one another based on what they learned through books, media, people, and other sources. For example, Chimamnda announced how she viewed Mexicans as immigrants and them trying to get through the borders, but the moment she stepped foot into Mexico the perspective she got from other sources changed everything. She was ashamed of herself because when she visit the view was completely different because what she saw was happiness, love, and fun. The single story is an image that is created based upon information that was given, but not on your own perspective. In other words, it is the truth to the reality. For example, when people hear of Niagara everyone think of land, poor, Africa, homeless,

Lux stands there motionless. Mallory and Anastasia run over embracing her. Walking her over to the couch to sit down.

Feeling all those eyes stare at me, I knew that my next few actions were vital to my survival. My sleep deprived state may have been the only thing keeping me from storming out of the bus right then and there. It also dictated my next action. Out of energy and fatigued, I decided it would be best to lay my head back and take a nap. I took the most angry, worried, and defeated nap imaginable on that bus ride to the track meet. Waking up to the gust of freezing wind that filled the bus as the door opened, and seeing the gargantuan football stadium made me realize that I had, in fact, survived the awkward bus ride to the regional meet. As I exited the bus and grabbed my pole, I expected to receive even more awkward stares, but alas, none were given. I concluded, with pole in hand, that if everybody had not forgotten about the incident already, they would once the track meet started. My anger temporarily ceased as we set up our tent. Once the tent was set up and I had put my pole in a safe position, my free hand reached for my phone. As I pulled out my phone and gently placed my thumb on the home button, the screen lit up. “7:25,” the screen said, as if to mock my anxiousness as I drove to

“Elders, this is a scan of Katherine Ayla Regan’s brain when she arrived here yesterday. I’d like you to note the unusual activity in the parietal lobe. She tapped the screen, and the parietal lobe became greater. Kat looked at the screen confused. A weird pink light was pulsing across the lobe.

“I won’t publish this. It’s absolutely rubbish; even a toddler might write this! I order you only essential information. No opinions here, Norah! Can’t you understand? You don’t have permission to express your fucking judgment. You can’t write an issue with this impact on our society!”

There are multiple things horribly wrong with society, but what makes up society? We do. Welcome to a world where you are defined by what you wear and you get judged by are idea of perfection, also don’t forget about the thousands of stereotypes you will be placed under.

To a young me, the world was black-and-white. The virtuous will remain good while the immoral will stay wicked, no shade of grey existing. The notion that humans can change their nature was ludicrous. Living in a society where sorting human beings into stereotypes is the norm only served to reinforce that idea. One day, though, the action someone who should stand for justice forced my eyes opened.

I have thought of a social experiment that to me would be interesting to test out. I dream of having racial extremists from multiple ethnic groups write letters to one another or engage in an internet chat session. They would then talk to each other about things like the food they like, movies, television, books, and just other things that would not give away who they really are as far as race goes. If they ask who they are talking to, I would say someone of their race and that this dialect is not to be about race for this session. At the end, they would be told or shown who they were actually communicating with and would essentially prove that their racist attitudes are irrational and blind. We can all get along with each other just fine if

Once upon a time a beautiful young girl by the name of Anastasia lived in a small village in England with her family. Anastasia was 20 years young and she blossomed with creativity. Anastasia’s physical appearance was very attention getting. She had long, blonde, wavy hair. She had beautiful blue eyes that were as blue as a robins egg. Sometimes when she would walk in town men would stop and stare at her. One time when she was walking to the farmer’s market, a boy on a bicycle was watching her and he ran into a telephone pole! Anastasia did not look for attention but a lot of it was drawn towards her because of her beauty. People would pay close attention to her when she was out and about, but when she was in her hometown people would talk

Over that weekend me and a friend of mine I will call this person friend number 5 went to the beach and during the ride over to the beach we were playing the radio and on the radio they were discussing politics. From what I remember they were conversing regarding republicans, democrats legislations etc. On that Monday this was not an employee but a client this client relayed plenty of information that was said during that conversation that took place on the radio. Likewise they mentioned some of the things we discussed in our conversation regarding what was said on the radio. Now I don’t want to exaggerate they of course did not mention everything that was said instead a few significant points that made it obvious that they were acquainted

Nicholas felt bad about how treating Anastasia. Nicholas realizes that Anastasia has like him for him. Hi, Nicholas you not going after Anastasia because Rose dumping you? Nicholas' friend Sam says. Sam, I feel Anastasia is safe and she would never leave. She is crazy if she does. Nicholas went to visit Martin and ask for Anastasia's hand marriage. Martin told Nicholas that Anastasia is visiting friends. Martin when Anastasia is coming back? Nicholas ask. No, I do not know but I will let you know when she coming back. Martin

When I was only a little girl, I had been told that true beauty came from within. Yet as I grew up, I noticed that looks mattered. From their attractiveness, race, age, or gender, anyone’s image was always up for scrutiny. Under those circumstances, I grew up thinking that if people were to judge me based on my appearance, that I should judge them the same way. Though, as I became older, I at some point learned that how a person looked wasn’t always in their range of control. A person simply isn’t born with the choice of picking what they look like, nor are they born with the choice of having a genetic disorder or disease. In that case, I believe that nobody should be defined purely based on what they look like.

As I walked out of my nine-story apartment complex, I saw an interesting array of faces. Mixed genders, some male, some female, all very different deep down inside. I study their faces, wondering what it'd be like to walk a day in their shoes. Some people are like open books, you can look at their facial expression and instantly guess what their emotions are, yet others are like locked diaries. You can't tell what they're thinking and you'll probably never know. I shake the thought out of my head as I rummage through my pathetic excuse of a handbag, pulling out my most recent bank statement. Thirty-two cents to my name. How do I live like this? My train of thought is lost as my mind ponders elsewhere. Do you think people can tell I'm a broke