Racial and Cultural Autobiography
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Growing up in the suburbs just south of Dallas in the 70’s and 80’s was much like growing up in countless suburbs across the country. Much of the nearly all white population grew up in Oak Cliff, and after growing up, they all sort of matriculated out, downhill, away from the city center. They call this white flight. My parents grew up in a segregated Dallas. They both graduated from Kimball High School. They were there when Kimball was integrated.
Though they never spoke much about it, I believe that experience stayed with them. I believe that experience is still there. They have never spoken to me about what it was like during this moment of change. I can look back today at the grainy black and white videos of those protesting integration while it was happening. I see the absolute hatred expressed in the faces of those who believed they were the most important stakeholders in what would become a defining moment for everyone who grew up in the south. Indeed, nothing was ever the same for them after that. I certainly hope my parents never used hate as a weapon so freely. Again, they have never spoken to me about it directly. But, growing up, they never allowed me to speak poorly of others. They never allowed me to believe I was better. Maybe that means they learned something in those days that they never lost. Maybe, though, their reaction to those times frightened them. Maybe they never knew they could hate like that. I like to think they were the ones welcoming the new kids into the school. They certainly welcomed all comers into their home while I was growing up. I like to think that they were different. I really do. I don’t know. Hate has fingers and they are long.
Hispanic/Germanic/Organic - My Cultural Journey - Anna Masters
“I’m white, just like Tim!” It was our annual family Christmas party. My aunt’s boyfriend was Tim. He was white. Most of my family members had a melanin glow that later in life I would desire. My mother is the hue of a new, fresh brown crayola. My dad? Well he isn’t in the crayon pack unless you have a 24 pack or higher. My dad is a fair skin African-American man with freckles. His freckles are the closest thing to melanin that he has. It was doing this honest exchange, I realized I was different. I was the light, almost white, black girl. Well at least that’s how people referred to me. At four, I didn’t understand colorism or the impact my race would have on my life.
“You gotta work twice as hard to get what they have!”, my mother. She started instilling this in me when I was in elementary school. It sounded good, but I didn’t understand who “they” were until later in life. I grew up as the “exception to the rule” in my ‘hood. I was the product of a two parent household, an academic overachiever and I was “light skindeded”. Children from where I’m from always added an extra ‘ed’. My peers constantly reminded me that I was different and I had access to some unspoken privilege given to me because of my complexion. Unbeknownst to them, I was fighting the same exact fight they were. I was seen as “special: by my teachers because I possessed academic tenacity. At the tender age of 10 months my dad, a preacher, would give me a pen and paper while he was crafting his sermon. By three, I was requesting that he read the same books over and over. I had no idea that he was tired of Cinderella and her ugly stepsisters. By the age of four, I was reading independently sans my father.
Growing Up Unapologetically Black
Most of my formative years I was raised in a middle-class neighborhood with numerous successful people that looked like me. In every aspect of my life I was able to look around and see successful doctors, lawyers, school administrators, musicians, ministers, teachers, bankers and the list could go on and on. I was exposed to proper decorum in all the activities, clubs and events I attended. My family raised me to be proud of who I was. I was constantly told that I was intelligent, beautiful and that I could do anything I put my mind to. Even though I was a child of the 70’s my elementary, middle and high school was predominately African American. I went through life feeling as though I was the best and nothing could stop me. I went on to attend an HBCU. I really did not experience racial issues until I started my teaching career. I left Dallas ISD to work in a nearby suburb. The school where I worked the staff was predominately white and so was the student population. The parents of my students was afraid to have their children in my class however they would not say this to me. I would have white teachers invade my class daily to “check” on their former students. This bothered me but I made it through the school year minimally affected. Over time many of the teachers that treated me this way eventually became my respected colleagues. My strong upbringing made it to where this treatment did not stop me from doing what I was called to do! I will never apologize for who I am, what I stand for and my beliefs! I am unapologetically Black!
White, Southern, Baptist, Rural, Poverty
These labels bound my childhood and that of my four siblings. A southern Baptist mother…old enough to be my grandmother…was the heart of our family. A father imprisoned by anger, resentment, and poverty was the stone in all our hearts.
As a child I always wondered what they saw in each other. How did this odd mating happen, and why did it survive-and in many ways-flourish for over thirty years? As I look back, I see one interesting intersection in their lives. Racist beliefs….although my mother would be horrified to read these words. My father would own the epithet with prideful spite.
My mother’s racism was the gentler, maternalistic, insidious kind. The excuse-making, let’s just keep separate, there’s nothing wrong with other people kind of racism. “They are just not our kind.” She was a tribute to the Southern Baptist dogma of the mid-twentieth century.
My father’s racism was the non-gentle, paternalistic, vilifying kind. His story was one of “I may be poor white trash, but at least I’m not [black]” grown out of abandonment, poverty, and a childhood that ended far too soon.
One other label that bound my childhood…that led me to push at the boundaries of the others was school. I am thankful everyday for school and the journey I began at the hands of teachers.
It was such a strange split-apart world to grow up in. I’m still working to grow out of it.
Racial Journey from Alabama to Michigan and Back!
My identity is shaped by how we are perceived by others, and how we internalize the opinions of others to determine who we are as an individual and as a race. This racial autobiography will address the general overview of influences which help to form my racial identity to include the following factors: family background, geographical location, educational development, present, and future endeavors.
Family Background I was born in the rural area in Dallas County (Orrville), Alabama. I was raised by two African American parents. My dad was born in the 1952 and my mother in 1955. I have 1 sibling, and I am the oldest in my family. My family on both sides are primarily African American and Indian descent. On my mother’s side of the family several great aunts were interracial. Most of my relatives had very light skin and could be mistaken for Caucasian. My mother and father had a very fair skin tone. My dad and mom were born and raised in Orrville, Alabama. My dad started driving school bus at the age of 15 and my mom quit school at the age of 16 after becoming pregnant with me. My dad father was a farmer and hunter and provided for his family my dad’s mother was a school cook and ensured that they ate well. My grandfather owed several acres of land that he shared with his siblings. My mother was raised by two African American parents and in their union, they had 17 children. My Grandfather on my mom side dropped out of school in the third grade to work in the cotton fields and help take care of his siblings. He was a Carpenter and a Farmer. He built houses, churches, and raised all types of live stocks. My mother’s mother worked on a plantation caring for the children of Caucasian. This was my mother’s bought with racial tension because she was the baby out of 17 and her older brothers and sisters raised her, and she never saw her mom and felt as though the Caucasians took away her mom from her. The people my grandmother worked for did provide her with land and a car to help take care of her family, but she was never home. My mother married my dad at the age of sixteen and dropped out of school at the age of fifteen when she became pregnant with me. I can remember growing up and asking my dad about his upbringing, and he would tell us about working in cotton fields, the marches( Selma to Montgomery), and driving school buses. When I was born, we moved to Detroit Michigan in the following month and he worked at Ford Motor Company. My mother always discussed how she didn’t like this about Caucasians and how it took her mother away from her. Two Different sides of the World. KC
Growing Up in the MS Delta
Growing up in the deep south and coming from a middle class family, I was blinded by a lot of things happening at school and in the community. My friends and I attended diverse schools through seventh grade; they then transferred to an all black high school; I continued attending the diverse schools because my parents thought it would be best to interact with various cultures because that’s what I would experience in the “real world.”
My first experience with unfair treatment that has shaped my beliefs came when it was time to attend college. The disappointment I experienced from not receiving scholarships from diverse schools that I know should have gone to me is something that haunted me for a long time. I know I was smarter--the GPA proved it--than those others who received them. When I told my parents about it, they said, “Remember, you have to work twice as hard as other races, and still it’s not guaranteed you will get it.” My response, “That’s not fair.” Theirs, “Life’s not fair.”
Sixth Generation Texan Atones for the Past
Lamar County, Texas is one of the most notoriously “racist” counties in all of Texas. Although a modern city from outward appearance, race relations in Paris and the surrounding areas remain mired in antebellum notions of white supremacy and black subordination. Public lynchings in the town square were common until the early 20th century. The county courthouse still proudly displays a Confederate Memorial statue on the lawn with a listing of the “glorious dead”. This courthouse, however, also bears the name of my great-great-great grandfather on a cornerstone as one of the founding fathers of the county. So, how did someone with such deep roots, from one of the most racist areas of Texas end up becoming an urban educator advocating for equality and the rights of African-Americans?
As a child, my time was split between my parents’ home in the city of Paris, and my maternal grandparents’ home in the community of Petty on the western edge of Lamar County. During the summer, I would live with my grandparents during the week while my parents worked. Life in Petty was like stepping back into time. I had to wake up early in the morning and go with my grandfather to the garden to pick the day’s meal. We always started with the peas and beans. I remember crawling through the black dirt on my hands and knees to pluck the bean pods. The earth was either tiny pebbles of dried land or a wet sticky mud that clung to every inch of your skin. I can still remember the smell of the sorghum fields when the wind blew in from the west. I hated picking the okra most of all. The leaves of the plant were sticky and felt like needles poking through your hands and fingers. After we finished the picking, we would bring the haul in to my grandmother where she would start cooking our lunch. We ate what we grew. Anything left over would be canned and stored away for the winter. (continued)
Racial & Cultural Autobiography
Life hasn’t been easy for a girl like me moving from the busy, voicestrous, I know my rights, North (Chicago); to the Yessum South(Texas). I put my high yellow, kissed by the sun butterscotch skinned in trouble numerous times(I thank my Daddy for that: he taught me to SPEAK MY MIND). By the way my nickname for people who have just met me is TROUBLE; because I do not back down; I make them do right! I was put on this EARTH to MOVE it. You see I am the melting pot of America, I am all screwed up racially and culturally, I just don’t know anymore. However, I am who many women want me to be ~ Determined, Independent, Intelligent, and Gorgeous with a lot of class. So, I have to actually define my culture as me the melting pot of America and make up my own cultural guidelines and rules for myself and my family.
Racial Autobiography to be continued!
Ties that BIND
Growing up in East Dallas with a culturally rich community was enlightening and always special for me. Learning was always a priority for us and the community, many didn't read but made sure to foster the desire to do so to all the children in the neighborhood. We didn’t know we were poor, disadvantaged, or considered inferior to some. I was blessed to be in a diverse neighborhood. Some other races left but we stayed and our neighbors stayed. I grew up and realized that others were different. Didn’t realize my dad was biracial and my mom was Creole from New Orleans until a friend told me they were different. Didn't understand what she meant though. As time went on it dawned on me that Mr. & Mrs. Rios were different too but the same. The dads worked hard, sent their 8 kids to school (we had the same # of kids), were strict disciplinarians and commanded respect from all 16 of us. I didn't realize our food was different until the same friend pointed that out to me. As we grew older the differences became more apparent but not the feelings. They were our neighbors and the two moms did everything together. So imagine us not going to the same middle or high school and they started to speak more spanish to each other. Shocking!!! Our friends weren’t the same anymore, we didn’t spend as much time with each other as we used to but, were always there for each other for the good, the bad , and the ugly. We learned how to stay in touch and adapt without losing touch. We are adults now and our families are still close but I can't help but think about how we navigated the color and culture line without losing each other. Then it hit me, like a ton of bricks, it was the moms. We were tied together by their friendship and later still because of that friendship we remain tied together but, not our children. I wonder often what we could have done to keep our families tied together as those two moms with the same values did? Once there were 16 and now there are 3 each after the 6 of us there will be no more ties. No N’s or M’s among us just honest hardworkers.
Third Culture Kids
“...The first culture of such individuals refers to the culture of the country from which the parents originated, the second culture refers to the culture in which the family currently resides, and the third culture refers to the amalgamation of these two cultures.� ...my passport says I’m American because my parents are American. My other passport says I’m Panamanian because I was born and raised in Panama. I’m a “Zonian” because I lived in the Canal Zone, a territory in Panama where they housed the Americans that worked on the Canal. I went to school with children of military service members who had lived all over the world and formed their own third culture identities. Then despite being civilian, my family moved to an American Air Force base in Japan and I had to learn military base culture, which is a third culture melting pot of its own, and learn Japanese culture. Then finally I brought all of that beautiful cultural stew to Texas. � Furthermore I had each one of these experiences as a white woman. And I’m WHITE WHITE... - I was born with a bright shock of red hair that later morphed into blonde, I have green eyes, and pale skin that betrays almost every internal emotion on my face with it’s fluctuating shades of red…”
1987-1999
1999- 2009
2009 - present
Parents
My dad would say I experienced racism earlier, around 14 years-old, when I was the only black girl on an Amateur Athletic Union (AAU) basketball team. He noticed, good I didn’t. I experienced it firsthand at Lon Morris College, a private two-year college. The only black person in the van on our way to sing at a church, a girl named Katherine, called me “the n word” when she was speaking with other members of our chorus. I pretended I did not hear her. I eventually looked at the rear view mirror to make eye-contact with my Asian director, but he kept his eyes on the road. Weeks later, Mrs. Rich and Mr. Brooks called me into the office--we had truly bonded by this time. I was met with tears and was told that Katherine was expelled. I do not know if John or Michael or the professor shared what happened. While in the office, Mr. Brooks shared his upbringing: his father was a bigot, and Mrs. Rich listened with her treehugger spirit—she was interested in protecting my environment as well.
At Lon Morris College, I was classified as a contralto and my repertoire reflected that level, low alto. However, when I arrived at Central State University (CSU), my repertoire changed: I was classified as a mezzo soprano. It wasn’t until I got older that I pondered why. Professor Brooks might have needed more altos or perhaps my blackness did not mesh well with the whiteness and daintiness in the soprano section. Perhaps Mr. Henry Caldwell, a world-renowned African-American tenor, knew my true talent and Mr. Brooks could not see past his bias.
When Professor Cristiana Hahn—another treehugger—arrived at CSU from Oberlin Conservatory of Music my senior year, I stood in front of the piano for vocal warm up scales. Mr. Caldwell motioned to her to stop as I was nearing my range. She nodded for me to continue. I did all the way up to a new vocal classification, coloratura soprano. She handed me Mozart’s The Queen of the Night with a slight smile. As I was leaving she said, “I knew you were a coloratura when you laughed.”