Being of a multicultural family in a time and place where things were very black and white was a very scary thing for me as a teen. It often meant being left out of a crowd or when racial tensions peaked, it meant no place was safe for me to go. It didn't matter which room I was in, I was often the pink elephant. I heard everything one race had to say about another, always getting the same response from the speaker: "Don't worry, we're not talking about you, but..." or "I know you're different, but..." It was not uncommon and it hurt me a lot.
I knew what they meant, though. I knew they were talking about the same kids I had problems with, or the same people who created certain problems within the community. But it hurt. I was white. I was black. As a matter of fact, I was yellow, red and tan too. When the talk got ugly, I always wondered if they included my own family in that talk, but on another hand, why shouldn't they? After all, I had 2nd cousins who even chased my brother and I for being "spics" and we weren't even Hispanic at all. The white side of my family was very racist and some are to this day. Those of us with the "mulatto colors" tended to stay away from the white family gatherings, but we weren't exactly invited to the black either. That was because they lumped us in with the white ones. But the white ones wanted us dead.
We have 3 other colors in our bloodlines, all of which were either ignored or secretly embraced by a chosen few. Why oh why did I fit the bill to be in that group when all I ever wanted was an identity, I don't know. I sure didn't want that identity! I knew that much. It was too complex. But here I was, too white for the black and too brown for the white. I heard I was "exotic" Hawaiian and Japanese as well, but you might as well have told me I have a fairy tale history because I couldn't tell. I never saw one, other than my grandmother's photos. Actually, a lot of white people have that. They get the one grandparent of a different color, but he learned a long time ago to shut up and just be white. Mine did too, except my grandfather was black. This put a whole different twist on my identity and is probably what kept me separated from the white. I would beat somebody up if they said something about my Papa... and they did. And I beat them up.
I only grew up with my maternal grandparents. They lived across the street and sometimes I lived with them, but they were too ethnic to be white (although people feared my grandmother, thus didn't mess with the likes of her). I was Papa's favorite grandchild, but with everyone else, I always ran under my brother's shadow unless I had an upcoming show or my brother failed his report card again.
That's about the only time I was liked or favored and even then, sometimes not because it was expected of me nd treated like a chore with some of the adults. "Oh God, she's got another show and we have to dress up this time. Shit."
Nobody ever came to my soccer games, practices or shows that I remember. But even when people did come, my Papa was never there. Not once. He only travelled with me through the colored side of town and waited patiently for me to come home so I could tell him how my day went. He often fought with my grandma over me, because he was the only person I ever really talked to. He knew what was going on with me. Everybody else was just too busy or harsh on me for not being a normal child. I didn't understand.
Papa taught me all about Martin Luther King Jr and gave me a book I cherished that taught kids about him. We ate pig's feet together and go on sad trails about his family history so that I know to learn about who I am. It was deeper than I could ever understand, but I knew this was important to remember. So I never forgot. But he never explained why he didn't come to my events. He would simply tell me it was just a day and a time before I would know. Better to just enjoy things now.
I played with all the black kids in my neighborhood, many of which were his nieces and nephews, but I don't know which ones. Nobody ever told me. We never had any problems where we lived. There were poor black and poor white - neither of which was acceptable just east of the railroad.
I danced and we went to these "luau's" in New Jersey. It was far. I didn't know those people and some of them spoke Pidgin-English. They called me Kahala and told me several stories of why they called me that. Every time we went there, they dug a pig out of the ground and we ate it. I always wondered why that wasn't dirty, but I couldn't pick up a soda from the curb side to drink. They made me eat this purple pudding that tasted nothing like pudding at all. Every time we left, this one woman would treat me a bag of goodies and my brother would tell me these crazy stories about who we were and why we had to be smart to get our country back. I didn't know what he was talking about.
Just behind that was Pow-Wow season and my Dad usually reserved special time for he and I there. He would introduce me to people who would tell me stories about my people from a long time ago. They told me there would be hidden signs in the land, wind, water and animals. They said to pay attention.
Every year when I went back to school, I was loaded with arguments for my history teacher about what the book said and what "my people" told me. One Irish teacher pulled me aside one day and told me that I had a special gift from God (Catholic School). He told me that I should remember the book to get a good report card, then go to the library and find the truth. Thank you, Mr. Wm. Murphy.
These were the intimate experiences that molded me prior to high school. They were my only safe childhood memories. I had one in each place, kind of like young roots stretching the span of the soils of the earth. I am forever grateful for those roots. Outside of the moments, circumstances made every other experience in my life cold, scary and at times, intolerable.
High School brought a whole new chapter to light. I went to a school for mentally gifted kids and we didn't have serious racial issues like other schools. Our school was a place of the most beautiful biodiversity I have ever seen unto this very day. But we all took the city bus from different places and often encountered that harsh, cold racism or inner city violence coming to and from school.
I also couldn't identify with anyone in school. Everyone else fit in somewhere and although I was cool with everyone, I wasn't a part of any inner circle. I didn't know if that was good, but it sure was lonely! I didn't fit in. I was too white for other ethnicities and too ethnic for the white. People stared at me when I walked into their after school groups and often didn't accept my presence there. Soon, I found others like me. Here is a clip of a story I told today on social media. My life became a lesson on unity and it started in Central High School of Philadelphia with a teacher by the name of Mr. Perry.
"When I was in high school, I looked for this. It wasn't fair to the likes of me who were multicultural, that every color had an afterschool group to attend and no matter which one I went to, I felt exacerbated because despite having the same culture in common, I was treated like an outsider (from EVERY culture) for not having been raised or knowledgeable as them. Soon, I had my own group of those who felt as rejected as me. Shh.... this is very relevant.
How many of you have experienced mass racism from every color at once? It doesn't make me smart or special. What it did was force me to create solutions on a cutting edge kind of level.
My group of 7 "cultural rejects" came up with an idea and some of the cultural groups rejected that at first. Then we got them. We decided that we could break some of these barriers to create a strengthened bond by holding a multicultural day at school.
We went through some political & protocol measures and before we knew it, it snowballed into a whole week with some local tv talk (I left Philly around that time, so I don't know what happened in the long run). But that's not the point.
The point is that through these multicultural showcases, we were able to teach those who didn't know about their roots, teach others about other cultures and foster bonds that many of us share unto this very day, 20 years later. It opened up a door that nobody was ever able to close again, even if it did that on a small level. We only had one requirement - nothing could be American until the very end, where we tied up all these cultures to display how we all came to where we are as a people under this "nation"
It did not take away everything bad. It did not change the colors of history. What it did was open eyes, teach, give each culture a sense of genuine pride. But not only did it give us pride, it also made us see how horribly cold the world is today, and what we had to do as the generation of tomorrow, to overcome some of these obstacles.
By looking at some of my peers, it was successful in uniting a lot of people and helping us overcome racial barriers to unite over issues we all faced as a common people.
What I find is that the whites who care to help, they are scared because they constantly see us (other colors) fighting for our rights and they don't want to be torn down by the bitter, when they are only trying to help. Many times, our own attitudes scare them away. Can you blame us for the attitudes? Not really, although we could tone down our language sometimes. Can we blame them for not wanting to be hung for having the good intention of helping us? Not really. So the good question is, how do we find that common ground for unification? Its going to take some work on both sides."
I knew what they meant, though. I knew they were talking about the same kids I had problems with, or the same people who created certain problems within the community. But it hurt. I was white. I was black. As a matter of fact, I was yellow, red and tan too. When the talk got ugly, I always wondered if they included my own family in that talk, but on another hand, why shouldn't they? After all, I had 2nd cousins who even chased my brother and I for being "spics" and we weren't even Hispanic at all. The white side of my family was very racist and some are to this day. Those of us with the "mulatto colors" tended to stay away from the white family gatherings, but we weren't exactly invited to the black either. That was because they lumped us in with the white ones. But the white ones wanted us dead.
We have 3 other colors in our bloodlines, all of which were either ignored or secretly embraced by a chosen few. Why oh why did I fit the bill to be in that group when all I ever wanted was an identity, I don't know. I sure didn't want that identity! I knew that much. It was too complex. But here I was, too white for the black and too brown for the white. I heard I was "exotic" Hawaiian and Japanese as well, but you might as well have told me I have a fairy tale history because I couldn't tell. I never saw one, other than my grandmother's photos. Actually, a lot of white people have that. They get the one grandparent of a different color, but he learned a long time ago to shut up and just be white. Mine did too, except my grandfather was black. This put a whole different twist on my identity and is probably what kept me separated from the white. I would beat somebody up if they said something about my Papa... and they did. And I beat them up.
I only grew up with my maternal grandparents. They lived across the street and sometimes I lived with them, but they were too ethnic to be white (although people feared my grandmother, thus didn't mess with the likes of her). I was Papa's favorite grandchild, but with everyone else, I always ran under my brother's shadow unless I had an upcoming show or my brother failed his report card again.
That's about the only time I was liked or favored and even then, sometimes not because it was expected of me nd treated like a chore with some of the adults. "Oh God, she's got another show and we have to dress up this time. Shit."
Nobody ever came to my soccer games, practices or shows that I remember. But even when people did come, my Papa was never there. Not once. He only travelled with me through the colored side of town and waited patiently for me to come home so I could tell him how my day went. He often fought with my grandma over me, because he was the only person I ever really talked to. He knew what was going on with me. Everybody else was just too busy or harsh on me for not being a normal child. I didn't understand.
Papa taught me all about Martin Luther King Jr and gave me a book I cherished that taught kids about him. We ate pig's feet together and go on sad trails about his family history so that I know to learn about who I am. It was deeper than I could ever understand, but I knew this was important to remember. So I never forgot. But he never explained why he didn't come to my events. He would simply tell me it was just a day and a time before I would know. Better to just enjoy things now.
I played with all the black kids in my neighborhood, many of which were his nieces and nephews, but I don't know which ones. Nobody ever told me. We never had any problems where we lived. There were poor black and poor white - neither of which was acceptable just east of the railroad.
I danced and we went to these "luau's" in New Jersey. It was far. I didn't know those people and some of them spoke Pidgin-English. They called me Kahala and told me several stories of why they called me that. Every time we went there, they dug a pig out of the ground and we ate it. I always wondered why that wasn't dirty, but I couldn't pick up a soda from the curb side to drink. They made me eat this purple pudding that tasted nothing like pudding at all. Every time we left, this one woman would treat me a bag of goodies and my brother would tell me these crazy stories about who we were and why we had to be smart to get our country back. I didn't know what he was talking about.
Just behind that was Pow-Wow season and my Dad usually reserved special time for he and I there. He would introduce me to people who would tell me stories about my people from a long time ago. They told me there would be hidden signs in the land, wind, water and animals. They said to pay attention.
Every year when I went back to school, I was loaded with arguments for my history teacher about what the book said and what "my people" told me. One Irish teacher pulled me aside one day and told me that I had a special gift from God (Catholic School). He told me that I should remember the book to get a good report card, then go to the library and find the truth. Thank you, Mr. Wm. Murphy.
These were the intimate experiences that molded me prior to high school. They were my only safe childhood memories. I had one in each place, kind of like young roots stretching the span of the soils of the earth. I am forever grateful for those roots. Outside of the moments, circumstances made every other experience in my life cold, scary and at times, intolerable.
High School brought a whole new chapter to light. I went to a school for mentally gifted kids and we didn't have serious racial issues like other schools. Our school was a place of the most beautiful biodiversity I have ever seen unto this very day. But we all took the city bus from different places and often encountered that harsh, cold racism or inner city violence coming to and from school.
I also couldn't identify with anyone in school. Everyone else fit in somewhere and although I was cool with everyone, I wasn't a part of any inner circle. I didn't know if that was good, but it sure was lonely! I didn't fit in. I was too white for other ethnicities and too ethnic for the white. People stared at me when I walked into their after school groups and often didn't accept my presence there. Soon, I found others like me. Here is a clip of a story I told today on social media. My life became a lesson on unity and it started in Central High School of Philadelphia with a teacher by the name of Mr. Perry.
"When I was in high school, I looked for this. It wasn't fair to the likes of me who were multicultural, that every color had an afterschool group to attend and no matter which one I went to, I felt exacerbated because despite having the same culture in common, I was treated like an outsider (from EVERY culture) for not having been raised or knowledgeable as them. Soon, I had my own group of those who felt as rejected as me. Shh.... this is very relevant.
How many of you have experienced mass racism from every color at once? It doesn't make me smart or special. What it did was force me to create solutions on a cutting edge kind of level.
My group of 7 "cultural rejects" came up with an idea and some of the cultural groups rejected that at first. Then we got them. We decided that we could break some of these barriers to create a strengthened bond by holding a multicultural day at school.
We went through some political & protocol measures and before we knew it, it snowballed into a whole week with some local tv talk (I left Philly around that time, so I don't know what happened in the long run). But that's not the point.
The point is that through these multicultural showcases, we were able to teach those who didn't know about their roots, teach others about other cultures and foster bonds that many of us share unto this very day, 20 years later. It opened up a door that nobody was ever able to close again, even if it did that on a small level. We only had one requirement - nothing could be American until the very end, where we tied up all these cultures to display how we all came to where we are as a people under this "nation"
It did not take away everything bad. It did not change the colors of history. What it did was open eyes, teach, give each culture a sense of genuine pride. But not only did it give us pride, it also made us see how horribly cold the world is today, and what we had to do as the generation of tomorrow, to overcome some of these obstacles.
By looking at some of my peers, it was successful in uniting a lot of people and helping us overcome racial barriers to unite over issues we all faced as a common people.
What I find is that the whites who care to help, they are scared because they constantly see us (other colors) fighting for our rights and they don't want to be torn down by the bitter, when they are only trying to help. Many times, our own attitudes scare them away. Can you blame us for the attitudes? Not really, although we could tone down our language sometimes. Can we blame them for not wanting to be hung for having the good intention of helping us? Not really. So the good question is, how do we find that common ground for unification? Its going to take some work on both sides."
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