The History Of My Family Has Always Been That Of A Mystery—You

It is crazy how much acceptance and understanding comes out of hearing someone else’s narrative. Yesterday, I read an academic journal by Traci Fordham-Hernandez titled, Raising Chicanos in the Great White North: A White Mother’s Muse, and it gave me a new perspective on the challenges that parents with two different ethnicities, cultures, and customs face when raising children. Undeniably, preserving the customs of our Mexican heritage mom has been something that you constantly try to instill in us so that we do not forget who we are. Traci, the mother in this narrative, is white, her husband is Mexican-American/ Chicano, and her children areLrt brown Mexican-American/Chicana/o. Just to give you a little bit of background mom, Traci lives

As a biracial woman growing up in the South, I never knew my place in the world. My father is a dark-skinned African American and my mother is a fair-skinned Caucasian, leaving my sister and I to fall somewhere in the middle. In elementary, my unique background caused numerous personal problems. Friends would assume I was adopted. I would frantically defend myself by saying “I am not adopted! My mommy is white and my daddy is black, and there is nothing wrong with me.” My classmates often told me that I was not possible: “black goes with black, and white goes with white.” In time, both races rejected me. I was bullied by the black girls at my school for being “too white” regarding my clothes and my hair. I continued to struggle with this

My maternal grandparents are JC Williams and Clara Goree and they were both born in 1910 and born and raised Sprotts (Marion), Alabama. My grandparents lived in segregated AL; JC ethnicity was black, southern Baptist, farmer, and Clara was combination of black and American Indian, homemaker, and farmer. Clara and JC wedded in 1926 and had their first child (Bobbie) shortly afterward. Subsequently, this union birth a total thirteen children and my mother (Mary) was number 11 of 13. The children worked well together to ensure their basic needs were met; however, once they became of age, the children all left to start their own careers and families.

All I wanted was moments with my mom when I was nine; I did not get it. What about age ten, eleven, and twelve? My whole childhood was snatched out from under me, and I had to grow up way to fast. Don’t worry, I did not blame you. I blamed myself until I was fifteen. It was my fault my mother tried to drown my sisters and me. I saw signs and clues. I could tell she was not acting herself, but I said nothing. I didn’t go and ask another grownup for help. I put my sisters’ lives in danger, because I didn’t protect them.

First, lets start with my family. There are a lot of things to know. For example, I am the oldest child in my family, as far as my mom, my dad, and my sister. On my mom’s side of my family, I have 3 younger cousins, 2 older cousins, 4 uncles, 1 aunt, my grandparents, and my nana. There are a lot more down in my family tree, but for this essay there are too many, some that have passed away, some that I have never meet, and some that I can’t remember. Lets begin with my cousins. My 3 younger cousins, in order by oldest to youngest, are Clayton, Madelyn, and Rowen. My 2 older cousins are Hannah, and Matthew. There is a story that goes along with

I am first generation French-American, born and raised in New York City in a middle class neighborhood, attending catholic school from kindergarten through to 12th grade. Those are the fact, however the details are that while being raised by both parents substantial dysfunction existed within the family unit, which translated in my life into a lack of belonging and identity for countless years. I knew the expectation of being French and American and understood the expected behavior and core values, however the house consisted of tyrannical father who remained absent yet influenced every aspect of the home life and this elusive

Everyone’s primary language was English on this side of the family. My grandfather identified as Afro-American, neither one of my grandparents like the term “black”, the prefer “Afro-Americans”. However, when he my grandfather came out the service for military his discharged papers labeled him as white. If you put those two sides of the family together you will get the race and ethnicity of my mother, however she identifies as black. On my father’s side, growing up my nana and the rest of our family thought my great grandmother was a mixed race, mixed with black and white. However, doing the time of her death we found her birth certificate which indicated she was Caucasian. My great grandmother was born in 1911, during these times if a black woman was giving birth the baby would be considered black as well no matter what race the father was. However, she was raised by a black woman and my nana believed the woman who raised my great- grandmother was her grandmother. My nana’s father was black. Therefore, my nana is black and white and she married a black man, giving birth to three

To begin with, I should mention that I do love being the child of two people of different ethnicities. My father is the son of a Caucasian man and an Argentinian woman while my mother was born to parents that are both Peruvian. I did not think much about the race of my parents or that of myself until I started school and another child had convinced me that my father could not possibly be my real dad. He pointed out my father’s light skin, blue eyes and blonde hair as evidence of this. I went home that day and cried

“Don’t listen to them,” my grandmother said as she wiped the tears from my face and ran her fingers through my long, black hair. I remember the constant teasing from my peers in elementary school. Growing up in a predominately white neighborhood, my family and I were looked at differently because we were “people of color.” All of the parents who would drop their children off for school in the morning would stare at my father. Growing up, it was incredibly difficult to figure out who I was because I was Mexican and Caucasian with a Puerto Rican step father who raised me since I was three. Thus, his culture heavily influenced me as well. At family parties I was spoken to in English and Spanish with both Mexican and Puerto Rican dialects.

My mother has taught me to be courageous and always stand up for what I believe in. Every day, when I think about all that she went through while raising us, I really am astonished. She has basically given up her life for us making sure that we be successful in everyway. I can remember her letting me try out for club basketball when I was in sixth grade, the money didn’t even daunt her she always found away. However, when someone hurts anyone of us she has no problem standing up for us. I can

I have learned of the similarities in their hardships, as well was how their experiences diverge. Both of them have struggled with money in their childhood homes, while my mother is the only one to see racism first hand. I hear of how my grandfather moved to the United States to work in Hawaii’s sugar-cane fields, and of how my great-great grandfather emigrated from Scotland to make a life in the country of possibilities, and today I celebrate my heritage and the different cultures I am a part of. America has been known as the melting pot of races, ethnicities, and religions, and it was here that my parents, two people who carry remarkably different histories, were able to come together. It is this idea of an inclusive America that has yet to emerge

History is defined as the study of the science of humanity in the past. It's a broad subject that spans over countless people groups throughout the years that the world has been around. Even before the times we have written word history was still being made, and it is still extremely important. We tend to forget that in our average day to day lives we are still making history. That all over the globe everyone is taking part in what might be in a history book someday.

To get a better understand of how my perspectives of race/ ethnicity, culture, and heritage came to be. I need to give a brief history of my family. Both of my parents immigrated from Mexico in the early 70’s. they are both from the same state of Jalisco, Mexico. Both of my parents did not have any formal education; consequently, they do not know how to write or read. My dad worked all his life in general labor jobs as well as my mother. I grew up in a predominately Hispanic area with minuminal diversity. I have two older siblings that are substantially older than I am. My grandmother took care of my while my parents went to work. So, a lot of my views I gain from her, since I spent a lot of time with her. It was until I got into late middle

My mother had it rough growing up. Forced to be out of the house nearly by dawn and only to return by nightfall, she was ignored and turned away by her mother. All throughout her childhood, and most of her young adult life until she ran away, my mother was

What I am today is the reflection of my family's history. History of endeavors, pains, failures and growth. One evening, I was talking to my grandma and she started telling about our family. At first, it seemed quite boring, but ended up in tears and made me learn the most important lesson of my life. It was quite a deep thing to realize for a kid but fortunately and eventually I understood.