I always thought being Chinese was a curse. When I was growing up, I lived in a mostly black neighborhood and I had friends, but I didn’t fit in. At first, I didn’t think too much about my race. Then, in first grade, two boys started calling me “small eyes” and making some karate noises. At first I didn’t know what it meant. I was only 6 years old.
Much later, when I was watching a Bruce Lee movie and saw him making the same stupid kung fu noises, I finally realized that they were messing with me because I’m Asian. Their jokes were only the beginning. Growing up, I was constantly made fun of because of my name, my looks, the way I talk, everything.
Even my friends teased me. One girl would always say, “Yenny Yam, how about some egg rolls?” Another friend would say, “Chin chun chun,” and then squint his eyes at me.
I know that sometimes they were only joking around, but it really hurt my feelings, even though I never said anything about it. I don’t think my friends thought it was hurtful, but they knew it was embarrassing for me because my face would become red and they would laugh about it.
Most of my friends were black, and some never said anything racist to me and would defend me to others. But their help was not enough.
And the teasing wasn’t the worst of it. One very clear and sunny day, my cousin Amy and I were taking the long way home from school, walking through the parking lot of a Baptist church. We saw these two black kids we knew from school, Damien and Shawn.
They yelled crude remarks at us, like, “Chin chun, egg rolls, Chun Lee,” and some other mean words regarding our race. Amy yelled at them to shut up and go away. That was when they started to throw rocks at us. One rock hit me straight in the chest. It hurt so much and I got a huge bruise.
I was not just teased by black people, but by white and Hispanic people too. When I was 8, these two white boys would throw rocks and sticks at us and call us names. But often I was most angry at my black peers, because it seemed like they should have known better.
I am not writing this to disrespect African Americans. But I would wonder why blacks were making racist remarks to me when they should have known better than anyone that it’s not right. They should have thought of what their ancestors had been through— and their parents and grandparents, and themselves—and realized that they were doing the same thing.
When teachers would teach us about slavery, civil rights, and segregation in class, the black students would talk about how they are treated unfairly because of their skin color.
I used to sit in class and think they were talking a lot of junk. They would mess with me one minute and the next they would make an about-face. They would say crude things to my face, then preach that it’s wrong to judge by skin color.
I don’t think they realized they were being hypocritical. When people think “racism,” they tend to think “black and white.” But the
way the people in my school acted toward me was racist, and getting treated like I was not even worth the dirt they stood on really hurt me. It made me angry. It also made me feel ashamed of being Asian.
I have never been sure whether to fight back or stay silent. I am afraid if I do say something back, it will just make people even more cruel.
One time I did speak my mind, and it only made things worse. I was working in my family’s restaurant when a couple of guys started to say some perverted stuff about Asian girls. I got mad and started to argue with one guy. He ended up grabbing a container full of rice that we use as a paperweight and throwing it at my head. I ducked and it missed my head by inches.
I was scared, but I looked him in the eye, staring him down, trying to make it seem like I wasn’t afraid of him. Inside, I wanted to cry.
I think I’m too small to fight back, but I wish I could. I think people tend to believe Asians are a weak race and are not able to stand up for themselves, so it makes me feel weak when I make that stereotype true.
But at least my brother Prince always stands up for himself. Once, when he and his friend were eating pizza, two teens started to call them names, wanting to start a fight. They were surprised when he and his friend fought back. I’m not a person who likes violence, but I was proud that my brother fought them, even if he did sprain his wrist.
Even worse than feeling angry is feeling ashamed of who I am. When I was younger, I used to wish I was a white girl with a white girl’s name. I love their big, light eyes and light hair colors. Instead, I have plain, dark brown hair and small, dark brown eyes.
When I used to play house or hotel or school with my cousin, we would always become white and I would pretend my name was Elizabeth White. I also pretended that I was rich, because back then I thought all white people were rich.
I used to wish that I was able to change my name for real, because no one else had such a weird name—Yen Yam. I used to hate having my name called out because someone would always have a comment about it. It wasn’t until I moved to New York and started high school that I met many people with unusual names. Before, I felt like I was standing out like a sore thumb.
You might think with all these angry feelings that I would become bitter and hateful toward others. But I don’t treat people differently because of their skin color. I am a shy girl, and I get to know people before I have an opinion about them.
Besides, I’ve always known people who don’t judge by skin color. I want to be like those people, not like the people who have hurt me.
I know racism really comes from ignorance. I even see that in my own family. When I was growing up they would sometimes say that black people are dirty or bad people. I would always say that there are dirty and bad Chinese people too. But it’s hard to change old ways of thinking.
I think the way the older people in my family grew up has a lot to do with why they look down on other races. They grew up in China, where they knew only Chinese people. In the United States, they are unable to communicate with others. So they just think the worst, based on what they hear from their friends.
The people who were messing with me were similar, in a way, because they didn’t know anything about Chinese people. They based their comments on what they had seen on television.
Right now, I don’t know how I should feel, though. Should I still feel angry at the people who have done this to me? Should I get revenge? Should I feel sad? I don’t know. I’m confused about everything.
But at least I don’t feel like my heritage is a curse anymore. Over time, I’ve become more comfortable with who I am. But sometimes I still feel lost and alone. Sometimes I wonder, “Where do I belong?”
I was born in the United States and don’t speak much Chinese. So here I am different because of my skin color. In China, I would be regarded as an idiot, an outsider, because I do not understand the language.
Friday, June 27, 2008
arab american
Right after the September 11th attacks on the World Trade Center, my school decided to allow students to express their feelings about the tragedy. I understood that everyone was very upset about what had happened. I was upset too. But the teachers really should have had some consideration and asked if there were any Arab Americans amongst us who would rather leave the classroom than listen to the insults that followed.
Little did anyone know that the quiet student who was sitting by herself in the corner of the room happened to be an Arab and was listening to all of their insults, hatred, and anger. See, there was no way they could guess that I’m Arab, because I dress very American, I have light skin and blonde hair, not to mention that I talk with a New York accent.
For the first few minutes, the students were just screaming and cursing about how the United States should “bomb every one of those “$%A&#$”. Then some students said that every Arab should die, and called them smelly, dirty, and so on and so forth.
In my school, the teachers believe in letting students speak their minds. So as the students were raving on, all my teacher did was tell them to keep their voices down and watch their language.
I sat quietly and acted calm. Inside, I felt a flame of anger that kept growing with every disgusting word that those kids were saying. Still, I felt so bad about what had happened, that I just told myself that everybody had a right to be angry.
I stayed quiet until one kid said that he had never thought about joining the army, but now he couldn’t wait to enlist, get a gun, and blow the heads off of every person he sees who even looks Arab.
That’s when I lost my tolerance and screamed, “Why wait for your diploma? Why don’t you just shoot me now?!”
Everyone suddenly quieted down and looked at me as if something was growing out of my head. I was glad I screamed. I couldn’t take hearing that hatred anymore.
I have many Arab friends and they all feel the same way I do. Actually, most of them feel worse. They have been harassed because they look more Middle Eastern than I do. My friends and·I have gotten abuse even from people we know. Some people from my neighborhood have called my brother and me “Bin Laden and his sister,” or “terrorist twins,” or “ugly A-rabs.” Those words hurt, although they’re not nearly as bad as getting beat up or even killed!
The thing that really gets me is that even though I was born in Saudi Arabia, I have spent almost my whole life here and I love the United States, maybe more than a lot of people who were born here and don’t really understand how lucky they are to have the freedoms and comforts we do.
One reason I don’t want to leave is because in this country I have learned to be an independent woman. In too many Middle Eastern countries, women have to stay home, take care of the children, and cook and clean. My father thinks in this very traditional manner. He thinks girls and women should look up to, honor, and respect their fathers and husbands, sort of like gods.
That attitude drove me crazy when I was living with him and was one of the reasons I went into foster care. But at least in this country, I know that I am much more than a piece of property. I am allowed to go to school, get a good job, have as many or as few children as I want, and even make more money than my husband ! And I get to pick that husband too (that is, if I want one), without having to worry about my father choosing a husband for me.
I also love the education that I’ve gotten in this country. (Despite the harsh words I heard from some students, I especially love the school I’m in now.) I love the fact that there are so many opportunities.
Then there are the smaller things I love, such as the music and going to rock concerts. I love the opportunity to eat Chinese food, Italian food, Indian food, and fast food all in the same day! I love the way the buildings look, and especially the fact that I would never have met my dear boyfriend, who is Hispanic American, if I had stayed in Lebanon, where my family lived after moving from Saudi Arabia.
Most important, I love that I have the freedom to say no to things I don’t want to do, or say, or take, or anything! I love this country for all those reasons and more, so when people attack me for being one of “them,” they don’t know a thing about how I feel. And they don’t know what it means to be an Arab, either. I have always been proud to be Arab.
Just like I love America, there are also things that make me feel connected to the land that I’m originally from. For instance, I like listening to Arab tunes every now and then. (When I go over to my mother’s, she has lots of tapes.) And as much as I like the mosh pits at a rock concert, I still like to belly dance to Lebanese music (when nobody is looking). I like Lebanese food like grape leaves and stuffed vegetables and chickpeas and stewed beef. Most importantly, I feel a strong connection to Lebanon because most of my family is still there. I believe I can love America and still be proud of being Arab.
Seeing Arab Americans become the target of people’s anger after September 11th has hurt, but I’m still proud to be an Arab American. It’s just that now, I have to be a little more careful about who knows it. I wish other people in this country would direct their anger at Osama Bin Laden and whoever else proves to be responsible for the loss of so many innocent lives. They shouldn’t make victims of more innocent people.
Little did anyone know that the quiet student who was sitting by herself in the corner of the room happened to be an Arab and was listening to all of their insults, hatred, and anger. See, there was no way they could guess that I’m Arab, because I dress very American, I have light skin and blonde hair, not to mention that I talk with a New York accent.
For the first few minutes, the students were just screaming and cursing about how the United States should “bomb every one of those “$%A&#$”. Then some students said that every Arab should die, and called them smelly, dirty, and so on and so forth.
In my school, the teachers believe in letting students speak their minds. So as the students were raving on, all my teacher did was tell them to keep their voices down and watch their language.
I sat quietly and acted calm. Inside, I felt a flame of anger that kept growing with every disgusting word that those kids were saying. Still, I felt so bad about what had happened, that I just told myself that everybody had a right to be angry.
I stayed quiet until one kid said that he had never thought about joining the army, but now he couldn’t wait to enlist, get a gun, and blow the heads off of every person he sees who even looks Arab.
That’s when I lost my tolerance and screamed, “Why wait for your diploma? Why don’t you just shoot me now?!”
Everyone suddenly quieted down and looked at me as if something was growing out of my head. I was glad I screamed. I couldn’t take hearing that hatred anymore.
I have many Arab friends and they all feel the same way I do. Actually, most of them feel worse. They have been harassed because they look more Middle Eastern than I do. My friends and·I have gotten abuse even from people we know. Some people from my neighborhood have called my brother and me “Bin Laden and his sister,” or “terrorist twins,” or “ugly A-rabs.” Those words hurt, although they’re not nearly as bad as getting beat up or even killed!
The thing that really gets me is that even though I was born in Saudi Arabia, I have spent almost my whole life here and I love the United States, maybe more than a lot of people who were born here and don’t really understand how lucky they are to have the freedoms and comforts we do.
One reason I don’t want to leave is because in this country I have learned to be an independent woman. In too many Middle Eastern countries, women have to stay home, take care of the children, and cook and clean. My father thinks in this very traditional manner. He thinks girls and women should look up to, honor, and respect their fathers and husbands, sort of like gods.
That attitude drove me crazy when I was living with him and was one of the reasons I went into foster care. But at least in this country, I know that I am much more than a piece of property. I am allowed to go to school, get a good job, have as many or as few children as I want, and even make more money than my husband ! And I get to pick that husband too (that is, if I want one), without having to worry about my father choosing a husband for me.
I also love the education that I’ve gotten in this country. (Despite the harsh words I heard from some students, I especially love the school I’m in now.) I love the fact that there are so many opportunities.
Then there are the smaller things I love, such as the music and going to rock concerts. I love the opportunity to eat Chinese food, Italian food, Indian food, and fast food all in the same day! I love the way the buildings look, and especially the fact that I would never have met my dear boyfriend, who is Hispanic American, if I had stayed in Lebanon, where my family lived after moving from Saudi Arabia.
Most important, I love that I have the freedom to say no to things I don’t want to do, or say, or take, or anything! I love this country for all those reasons and more, so when people attack me for being one of “them,” they don’t know a thing about how I feel. And they don’t know what it means to be an Arab, either. I have always been proud to be Arab.
Just like I love America, there are also things that make me feel connected to the land that I’m originally from. For instance, I like listening to Arab tunes every now and then. (When I go over to my mother’s, she has lots of tapes.) And as much as I like the mosh pits at a rock concert, I still like to belly dance to Lebanese music (when nobody is looking). I like Lebanese food like grape leaves and stuffed vegetables and chickpeas and stewed beef. Most importantly, I feel a strong connection to Lebanon because most of my family is still there. I believe I can love America and still be proud of being Arab.
Seeing Arab Americans become the target of people’s anger after September 11th has hurt, but I’m still proud to be an Arab American. It’s just that now, I have to be a little more careful about who knows it. I wish other people in this country would direct their anger at Osama Bin Laden and whoever else proves to be responsible for the loss of so many innocent lives. They shouldn’t make victims of more innocent people.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Level of Racism.
Institutionalized racism is illustrated by the initial separation of the seed into the two types of soil, the flower boxes which keep the soil separate, and the inaction in the face of need by the gardener who fails to fertilize or mix up the soils. Personally-mediated racism is exemplified when the gardener, viewing pink as inferior to red, plucks a pink blossom before it can even go to seed. Internalized racism is exemplified by a pink flower saying to an approaching bee, "Don't bring me any of that pink pollen - I prefer the red!" because the pink flower has internalized the belief that red is inherently better than pink.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Nancy, the girl good with numbers
Nancy came from Africa and found herself in my pga class as a 10th grade student. Few days after we met, she wanted to go to a harder class since she had learned much at her own country. I gave her a test and she indeed was able to score better than an average algebra2 student.
I went to see the counselor. On or right after 20 days into school year, I was finally getting an “OK” to fill out a change form. I signed the form and called the parents to sign for it. It was turned in and I was assured that the form would not be processed right away but it will eventually be executed.
Soon after that, I was given a choice to keep her in my room until official change was sent in or move her to a pd1 geometry class. Student wanted to move right away.
Now, I was blamed for “moving student” without permission. I will need to sign something acknowledging that I did something wrong.
I thought we promised to give “all” children a fair education. Nancy was in 10th grade and most students took geometry in 9th grade or earlier so she was already behind. She was more than ready for it and she told me she wanted to take as many hard math as possible.
EPILOGUE: I met her prior to summer and she said she did very well in geometry. I just smiled. I do not regret trying to get her in an appropriate class. I did the right thing.
EPILOGUE2: She did well in honors algebra2 and now is in honors pre-calc. :)
I went to see the counselor. On or right after 20 days into school year, I was finally getting an “OK” to fill out a change form. I signed the form and called the parents to sign for it. It was turned in and I was assured that the form would not be processed right away but it will eventually be executed.
Soon after that, I was given a choice to keep her in my room until official change was sent in or move her to a pd1 geometry class. Student wanted to move right away.
Now, I was blamed for “moving student” without permission. I will need to sign something acknowledging that I did something wrong.
I thought we promised to give “all” children a fair education. Nancy was in 10th grade and most students took geometry in 9th grade or earlier so she was already behind. She was more than ready for it and she told me she wanted to take as many hard math as possible.
EPILOGUE: I met her prior to summer and she said she did very well in geometry. I just smiled. I do not regret trying to get her in an appropriate class. I did the right thing.
EPILOGUE2: She did well in honors algebra2 and now is in honors pre-calc. :)
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Print or Not
Dave needed to print a page. He went to computer lab first. He was told that he could not use any computer since there was one student taking a test. He promised to be quiet and quick but was told, "NO".
He went to media center and was told that he needed a pass. He got a pass but was told that the pass had to be from an official passbook.
He was finally able to pay and print it. However, he felt that people would just like to prevent him from printing.
Rich students have computers and printers at home so this is not a problem.
He went to media center and was told that he needed a pass. He got a pass but was told that the pass had to be from an official passbook.
He was finally able to pay and print it. However, he felt that people would just like to prevent him from printing.
Rich students have computers and printers at home so this is not a problem.
Book or Exam
Sadie ran to me asking for $2 indicating that she lost her book and the teacher would not let her take the final exam without either the book or the $2 paid.
Few minutes later, she ran back looking mad. She said that she went to the finance office and paid the $2 and went back to take the exam only to be told, "It is too late, come back tomorrow".
Few minutes later, she ran back looking mad. She said that she went to the finance office and paid the $2 and went back to take the exam only to be told, "It is too late, come back tomorrow".
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
School Connectedness
Facts:
By high school, some 40 to 60 percent of all students are chronically disengaged from school. That number does not include those who have already dropped out. What can be done? First, recognize that people connect with people. Relationships formed between students and school staff members are at the heart of connectedness. Please see these resources.
http://www.jhsph.edu/mci/resources/Exec%20Summary%20R3.pdf.
http://www.schoolmediation.com/newsletters/2007/11_07.html.
Please view this video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CM1gEAVSwyI.
The components of connectedness.
Research has taught us that second only to family, school is the most important stabilizing force in the lives of young people. For children who often feel “like the new kid on the block,” having someone to sit with at lunch, a teacher who helps them catch up on class material they missed in transfer or a coach who finds a way to incorporate them into a team—even after the season begins—is vital to their success. How could it be achieved?
http://www.ed.gov/admins/lead/safety/training/connect/school_pg9.html
MSTA-HCR Strategies
Our work should be focused on keeping at-risk (only) minority students in school and help them graduate eventually. We believe that having these students connected to schools would be the key. There are some strategies:
These students need school more than anyone. Opportunities should be made available for these kids to stay in school for different reasons as well as activities. A basketball club would allow many of them to gather, socialize, or otherwise bond positively to schools. A homework club could further enhance their abilities academically.
Positive messages should be communicated to them. A trained mentor could show them the ropes to good studying habits, advantages of following school rules, and simply how to behave in a school. These students could also be welcomed to a “Brothers or Sisters Club”. These clubs should be focused on processes that could help seeing “hope” in graduation, and working hard for an American life.
By high school, some 40 to 60 percent of all students are chronically disengaged from school. That number does not include those who have already dropped out. What can be done? First, recognize that people connect with people. Relationships formed between students and school staff members are at the heart of connectedness. Please see these resources.
http://www.jhsph.edu/mci/resources/Exec%20Summary%20R3.pdf.
http://www.schoolmediation.com/newsletters/2007/11_07.html.
Please view this video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CM1gEAVSwyI.
The components of connectedness.
Research has taught us that second only to family, school is the most important stabilizing force in the lives of young people. For children who often feel “like the new kid on the block,” having someone to sit with at lunch, a teacher who helps them catch up on class material they missed in transfer or a coach who finds a way to incorporate them into a team—even after the season begins—is vital to their success. How could it be achieved?
http://www.ed.gov/admins/lead/safety/training/connect/school_pg9.html
MSTA-HCR Strategies
Our work should be focused on keeping at-risk (only) minority students in school and help them graduate eventually. We believe that having these students connected to schools would be the key. There are some strategies:
These students need school more than anyone. Opportunities should be made available for these kids to stay in school for different reasons as well as activities. A basketball club would allow many of them to gather, socialize, or otherwise bond positively to schools. A homework club could further enhance their abilities academically.
Positive messages should be communicated to them. A trained mentor could show them the ropes to good studying habits, advantages of following school rules, and simply how to behave in a school. These students could also be welcomed to a “Brothers or Sisters Club”. These clubs should be focused on processes that could help seeing “hope” in graduation, and working hard for an American life.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Ethnic issues at schools
Here’s a scene from a typical day in my high school classroom:
students from various countries, such as Mexico, Poland, Bangladesh, Yemen, and the Dominican Republic, are talking and laughing as they work together and help each other.
The teacher yells, “Why am I hearing you talking? Shouldn’t you be working?”
“We work and talk at the same time,” we answer.
When the clock marks lunchtime, we rush out of our classroom and head for the cafeteria. But by the time we reach our destination, the kids who mixed happily in the classroom have left that spirit of unity behind.
At most of the tables in the cafeteria, you see faces of the same color. The students enjoy this time with their own folks. The kids say they do this because it’s just more comfortable. So whoever arrives in the cafeteria first gets her food and spots some seats, then saves a place for others of her same race or ethnic group.
After lunch, they leave together and spend the rest of the period in the hallways, or outside if it’s not cold. A group of Polish kids settles on the floor near the main office, chatting and gossiping. Sometimes other Polish kids play checkers or dice nearby.
Some of the Dominicans sit in the hallway a few feet from
the Polish kids. Most of the time they talk loudly and sing in
Spanish or dance. A little further along, some kids from Ecuador or
Peru hang out. The Bengalis gather in one classroom, listening to
Bengali music. The Haitian girls—the group I am part of—hang out next to our counselor’s office, while the Haitian boys assemble on the stairs.
The students are allowed to roam around freely like this because my school is very small and generally there’s harmony. People may have their personal disagreements, but groups rarely fight. That doesn’t mean that everybody’s friends, though—they aren’t.
Of course, some teens do befriend people from different races. One Polish girl often hangs with a Filipina girl, and there are two black guys, one from France, the other from Africa, who are friends with a kid from Mexico.
I am also someone who doesn’t stick only to her own race— although this wasn’t always the case. When I first arrived here I had never spent any time with white people.
I lived in Haiti until I was 14. When I saw white people in Haiti, I hated them because I knew that whites had enslaved and mistreated blacks. I didn’t know any whites who considered blacks their equals.
Also, some Haitians said, “Oh, the whites are so smart!” whenever they saw great things like computers or cars, as if no black person could invent things, and I hated that.
When I moved to the United States, I began to experience being around people of other races. I sat in a classroom and saw all different kinds of people. I wanted to talk to them—except the whites. My friends were Chinese, Honduran, and Haitian.
But when I saw the white kids, I said to myself, “I am not going to talk to these people.” I assumed they were saying the same thing because I’m black. But gradually my attitude changed.
The white kids at school treated me nicely, and I saw that many blacks were doing great at my school. It seemed like in the United States, whether you were black or white, you could do great things. In class I learned that we all had things in common and I began to feel comfortable. My friends and I often discussed racism. We thought that teenagers should mix. Our culture and skin color differed, but we ignored our differences in the classroom and got along very well.
So it surprised me that when I returned to school last fall, I stopped mingling with other races and stayed with two Haitian girls. It didn’t happen that way because I was being a racist, or at least I didn’t think so.
It was because my Honduran friend, Daysa, was not yet back from vacation, and most of my old Chinese friends were in other classes. So every day during lunch, I started sitting with the Haitian girls.
After Daysa came back, I still spent most of my time with the Haitians. Daysa spoke with her friends in Spanish and I spoke Haitian Creole with my friends. I didn’t see any problem with this until one day I got to the lunchroom before my two Haitian friends.
A friend of mine from the Dominican Republic asked me to sit with her, so I did. When my Haitian friends came, they looked at me strangely, but I didn’t react and just said, “Hi.”
Then I ate my lunch and talked to the Dominican girl.
Later, when my Haitian friends were leaving, they passed and said, “Oh, yeah, Cassandra, you’re buy ing the Spanish face.” (“Buying someone’s face” is a Haitian expression. It means that you ignore your own race and stay with another one because you think that the other race is superior, even if that race is disrespectful to you.)
I laughed and said, “What do you mean I’m buying the Spanish face? Sitting with someone Spanish has nothing to do with that.” Later I talked with one of my friends and told her that what they said wasn’t fair and didn’t make me happy.
“Okay, girl,” she said, and that was it. We were again at peace.
I didn’t take these things too seriously. They sounded more like jokes to me. But soon I realized they were not jokes. Later in the year, I became friends with a Russian girl named Natasha. We were in the same group in class and she was very nice to me. We always talked to each other in class and she often called me on the telephone, but we never sat together at lunch.
One day my Haitian friends were sitting at our table while I was
still standing in line. After I got my meal I saw Natasha and she called to me.
“Come sit with me!” “Oh . . . I’m sorry. I have to sit with
the Haitians or else they will say that I’m buying your face. You know...”
“What?” Natasha said, confused. I explained the expression and she said, “Okay, I’ll see you later.”
I left her by herself and went to my other friends. Because I didn’t want my Haitian friends to tease me, I stopped hanging out with people of other races.
Sometimes in the morning I still walked around with one of the Chinese guys who had been my friend since ninth grade. My friends from Haiti never said anything about that, but another Haitian girl told me, “Cassandra, you love the Chinese too much. You’re buying their faces.”
I laughed and told her she was wrong. Still, I kept my friendship with kids from other races inside the classroom, because I hated what my Haitian friends said whenever I hung out with them at lunch.
The Haitian students mean a lot to me and I always try to get along with them because they’re my people. I never told them how much I was bothered by what they said. Then I started to write this story, and I began to think about how we were all acting.
I realized I had become a different person by not mixing with other students when I wanted to. And when I realized that, I decided to change back to who I really am.
Now, in the cafeteria, I sit with Natasha, my Russian friend, along with my Honduran friend, Daysa.
I had stopped mixing with other kids because I was scared of what my friends would think and say. It’s good to stay with “your people” sometimes. But, at the same time, if you only stay with your people, you’re missing out on a lot of opportunities to make new friends and have new experiences.
We need to break down the walls of language, culture, and skin color if we want racism to stop. We share many common things, but the only way we can find out what they are is if we mix.
students from various countries, such as Mexico, Poland, Bangladesh, Yemen, and the Dominican Republic, are talking and laughing as they work together and help each other.
The teacher yells, “Why am I hearing you talking? Shouldn’t you be working?”
“We work and talk at the same time,” we answer.
When the clock marks lunchtime, we rush out of our classroom and head for the cafeteria. But by the time we reach our destination, the kids who mixed happily in the classroom have left that spirit of unity behind.
At most of the tables in the cafeteria, you see faces of the same color. The students enjoy this time with their own folks. The kids say they do this because it’s just more comfortable. So whoever arrives in the cafeteria first gets her food and spots some seats, then saves a place for others of her same race or ethnic group.
After lunch, they leave together and spend the rest of the period in the hallways, or outside if it’s not cold. A group of Polish kids settles on the floor near the main office, chatting and gossiping. Sometimes other Polish kids play checkers or dice nearby.
Some of the Dominicans sit in the hallway a few feet from
the Polish kids. Most of the time they talk loudly and sing in
Spanish or dance. A little further along, some kids from Ecuador or
Peru hang out. The Bengalis gather in one classroom, listening to
Bengali music. The Haitian girls—the group I am part of—hang out next to our counselor’s office, while the Haitian boys assemble on the stairs.
The students are allowed to roam around freely like this because my school is very small and generally there’s harmony. People may have their personal disagreements, but groups rarely fight. That doesn’t mean that everybody’s friends, though—they aren’t.
Of course, some teens do befriend people from different races. One Polish girl often hangs with a Filipina girl, and there are two black guys, one from France, the other from Africa, who are friends with a kid from Mexico.
I am also someone who doesn’t stick only to her own race— although this wasn’t always the case. When I first arrived here I had never spent any time with white people.
I lived in Haiti until I was 14. When I saw white people in Haiti, I hated them because I knew that whites had enslaved and mistreated blacks. I didn’t know any whites who considered blacks their equals.
Also, some Haitians said, “Oh, the whites are so smart!” whenever they saw great things like computers or cars, as if no black person could invent things, and I hated that.
When I moved to the United States, I began to experience being around people of other races. I sat in a classroom and saw all different kinds of people. I wanted to talk to them—except the whites. My friends were Chinese, Honduran, and Haitian.
But when I saw the white kids, I said to myself, “I am not going to talk to these people.” I assumed they were saying the same thing because I’m black. But gradually my attitude changed.
The white kids at school treated me nicely, and I saw that many blacks were doing great at my school. It seemed like in the United States, whether you were black or white, you could do great things. In class I learned that we all had things in common and I began to feel comfortable. My friends and I often discussed racism. We thought that teenagers should mix. Our culture and skin color differed, but we ignored our differences in the classroom and got along very well.
So it surprised me that when I returned to school last fall, I stopped mingling with other races and stayed with two Haitian girls. It didn’t happen that way because I was being a racist, or at least I didn’t think so.
It was because my Honduran friend, Daysa, was not yet back from vacation, and most of my old Chinese friends were in other classes. So every day during lunch, I started sitting with the Haitian girls.
After Daysa came back, I still spent most of my time with the Haitians. Daysa spoke with her friends in Spanish and I spoke Haitian Creole with my friends. I didn’t see any problem with this until one day I got to the lunchroom before my two Haitian friends.
A friend of mine from the Dominican Republic asked me to sit with her, so I did. When my Haitian friends came, they looked at me strangely, but I didn’t react and just said, “Hi.”
Then I ate my lunch and talked to the Dominican girl.
Later, when my Haitian friends were leaving, they passed and said, “Oh, yeah, Cassandra, you’re buy ing the Spanish face.” (“Buying someone’s face” is a Haitian expression. It means that you ignore your own race and stay with another one because you think that the other race is superior, even if that race is disrespectful to you.)
I laughed and said, “What do you mean I’m buying the Spanish face? Sitting with someone Spanish has nothing to do with that.” Later I talked with one of my friends and told her that what they said wasn’t fair and didn’t make me happy.
“Okay, girl,” she said, and that was it. We were again at peace.
I didn’t take these things too seriously. They sounded more like jokes to me. But soon I realized they were not jokes. Later in the year, I became friends with a Russian girl named Natasha. We were in the same group in class and she was very nice to me. We always talked to each other in class and she often called me on the telephone, but we never sat together at lunch.
One day my Haitian friends were sitting at our table while I was
still standing in line. After I got my meal I saw Natasha and she called to me.
“Come sit with me!” “Oh . . . I’m sorry. I have to sit with
the Haitians or else they will say that I’m buying your face. You know...”
“What?” Natasha said, confused. I explained the expression and she said, “Okay, I’ll see you later.”
I left her by herself and went to my other friends. Because I didn’t want my Haitian friends to tease me, I stopped hanging out with people of other races.
Sometimes in the morning I still walked around with one of the Chinese guys who had been my friend since ninth grade. My friends from Haiti never said anything about that, but another Haitian girl told me, “Cassandra, you love the Chinese too much. You’re buying their faces.”
I laughed and told her she was wrong. Still, I kept my friendship with kids from other races inside the classroom, because I hated what my Haitian friends said whenever I hung out with them at lunch.
The Haitian students mean a lot to me and I always try to get along with them because they’re my people. I never told them how much I was bothered by what they said. Then I started to write this story, and I began to think about how we were all acting.
I realized I had become a different person by not mixing with other students when I wanted to. And when I realized that, I decided to change back to who I really am.
Now, in the cafeteria, I sit with Natasha, my Russian friend, along with my Honduran friend, Daysa.
I had stopped mixing with other kids because I was scared of what my friends would think and say. It’s good to stay with “your people” sometimes. But, at the same time, if you only stay with your people, you’re missing out on a lot of opportunities to make new friends and have new experiences.
We need to break down the walls of language, culture, and skin color if we want racism to stop. We share many common things, but the only way we can find out what they are is if we mix.
My clothe from a student
Back home in Jamaica, I never really worried about whether my clothes matched. At school, the only thing that used to matter was how clean my uniform was and whether it was ironed. When I went to visit my friends, I would just put on a couple of freshly washed pieces of clothing without even thinking about how they looked.
We were kids—our friendships were not based on appearance. We just liked to run around and have fun. It didn’t matter if our braided hair was pointing in all directions and our blouses and skirts had some buttons missing, or if we were barefoot and covered in red dirt.
I never experienced being judged because of the way I dressed— until I came to the United States. The first time it happened was on my first day of junior high school, which was also my first day in an American school.
I was a little scared that day, mainly because of the new environment. Walking down the hallway, I felt very self-conscious, so I turned around to get a better look at my classmates.
~Two girls were staring at me, whispering and giggling. I stopped and waited for them to pass, but they said to go ahead, so I did. They continued looking at me, but I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know how to respond.
Even though I couldn’t hear their conversation, I figured out it had something to do with the way I was dressed.
They were wearing expensive blue jeans and blouses, the latest name-brand sneakers, and their outfits matched. Plus, they had their hair permed.
I was wearing a pink and black plaid jumper with two straps in front, a blue, red and white striped long-sleeved blouse, thick black stockings, and brown shoes. And I just had big braids in my hair, because my grandmother didn’t want me to perm it and it is fine with me.
When I got to my first period class, a couple or more of my classmates pointed out my shoes or clothes to their friends and laughed. Some of them even started throwing papers in my direction.
I looked different from everyone else and that was a big problem. When you start junior high, the pressure to fit in and gain respect is intense. The kids who made fun of me were popular— partly because their designer clothes made them seem cool. My clothes made me stand out and gave the others an excuse to pick on me.
I was the perfect target and it wasn’t just because of the way I dressed. I was in a new environment and that made me feel scared and insecure. I was like a fish outside its water bowl. My classmates saw that I was in a position of weakness and wouldn’t stand up for myself. They took advantage of that.
Almost every day, I would be greeted with giggles, pointing, and other demonstrations of their disapproval. For a long time, I didn’t have any friends to back me up and the teacher did nothing to control the students. I felt like everyone was against me, like n one was on my side. Two girls named Luvia and Nefertiti were th main sources of my torment. They would put “kick me” signs o my back, throw papers at me, and make fun of my clothes.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t want to go to school. Whe I got home each day, I would cry and complain to my grandmoth about what was happening, but she was too busy to do anythi about it.
Sometimes she would say, “Ignore them,” or tell me to tell th mothers. Then she would force me to go back to school. She nev really understood how hurt and depressed I was.
I would go to school each day with my heart pounding. I har paid attention and I never really learned anything. It was hard concentrate on my schoolwork. The other students were very ruptive. Because I was quiet, the teacher always pointed me ou an example to the rest of the class. That made things worse for
because I was now considered the teacher’s pet.
I did not want to go to school any more.
To take my mind off the fact that I
might end up in a fight any minute, I’d bring a thick romance
novel to school and just
sit in class and read all day.
Instead of focusing on learning like I
should have, I focused on surviving by losing myself in books.
I did make one friend that year. Her name was Tina. She was really friendly and we had a couple of things in common.
We were both from Jamaica, but Tina had been here for five years. We both had strict families. Tina wore the latest styles of name-brand clothing, just like Luvia and Nefertiti, but unlike them, she never judged me because of the way I dressed.
Tina would defend me when the others were picking on me.
She would tell them to leave me alone and always tried to help
me out. One time, Luvia tried to spite Tina by saying that Tina and
I were sisters. Later that day, I wrote a poem to Tina, titled “You’re
Like a Sister,” and she liked it.
Having Tina as a friend made the days more bearable because I was not entirely alone. But it didn’t make much of a difference in terms of how I was treated by the other kids. In fact, it didn’t make any difference at all.
Around the middle of the school term, I started to think that maybe if I dressed like the rest of them, they wouldn’t bother me so much. I hadn’t made any effort to fit in sooner because I was stubborn. But I was tired of having people treat me like I was beneath them.
One day, I went to school wearing yellow socks and a yellow blouse with a black skirt. Right at the beginning of class, Nefertiti showed Luvia my socks and said, “What are you doing?” with a
won’t look as good as we do.” Not knowing what to say, I turned my back, feeling a little defeated. I went back to wearing my usual outfits.
A month or two later, my uncle’s girlfriend gave me a pair of name-brand sneakers. I wore them to school and I have to admit they gave me a little confidence. I thought I would get acceptance with my new shoes.
When I got to school, one kid actually announced to the class that I had on a name-brand sneaker and everyone looked. But I didn’t feel any more accepted by my peers than I had before.
No matter what I did, they wouldn’t let up. Luvia, in particular, was always throwing things at me or hitting me. I never started anything with her. She was always coming after me. Then the kids she hung around with would tell her how bad she was.
One day in the spring she was in the hallway, surrounded by her friends, when I passed by. When she saw me, she hit me. I didn’t want to fight, so I started to walk by as I usually did. But, for some reason that day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided it had to stop.
So when I saw Luvia in the cafeteria, I went up to her and slapped her face. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor. Luvia was much bigger than I, so it wasn’t much of a surprise when I lost the fight.
Later that day, Luvia and her friends came up to me. She was very upset and kept staring at me, but she didn’t say anything. I went home early.
That night, I told my father how these two girls had been giving me a hard time. He decided to take a day off from work and come to school with me and make a complaint. We went to the counselor’s office. She called in Luvia, sat the two of us down, and asked about what was going on between us. Then she talked to us for a while.
I didn’t really hear what the counselor was saying. I was too busy staring at Luvia and wondering what she thought about all this and what the other kids would think when they heard about it. After my father left, I went back to class. Everyone was looking at me.
After that, Luvia didn’t bother me or throw things at me anymore, but she and her friends still gave me dirty looks.
When I finally finished seventh grade, I had the greatest summer of my life—simply because I had survived. I would stay home most of the time watching television, without anyone tormenting me.
In eighth grade, things got better. Everyone started to settle in and feel more comfortable. They let down some of their guard, which made for a less hostile environment.
My classmates stopped making fun of my clothes. I didn’t really change the way I dressed, but I stopped wearing certain things—like skirts and dresses that made me look like I was going to church.
I got the chance to make new friends because everyone was friendlier. When I really got to know my classmates, I found out they weren’t really bad people. And Luvia and Nefertiti weren’t in any of my classes anymore, which made everything much easier for me. I didn’t dread going to school.
That experience taught me never to judge people by appearance. I never tease anyone because of what they wear or how they look. I’ve also got the best of friends because I didn’t pick them based on how they look, but by getting to know them as individuals.
We were kids—our friendships were not based on appearance. We just liked to run around and have fun. It didn’t matter if our braided hair was pointing in all directions and our blouses and skirts had some buttons missing, or if we were barefoot and covered in red dirt.
I never experienced being judged because of the way I dressed— until I came to the United States. The first time it happened was on my first day of junior high school, which was also my first day in an American school.
I was a little scared that day, mainly because of the new environment. Walking down the hallway, I felt very self-conscious, so I turned around to get a better look at my classmates.
~Two girls were staring at me, whispering and giggling. I stopped and waited for them to pass, but they said to go ahead, so I did. They continued looking at me, but I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know how to respond.
Even though I couldn’t hear their conversation, I figured out it had something to do with the way I was dressed.
They were wearing expensive blue jeans and blouses, the latest name-brand sneakers, and their outfits matched. Plus, they had their hair permed.
I was wearing a pink and black plaid jumper with two straps in front, a blue, red and white striped long-sleeved blouse, thick black stockings, and brown shoes. And I just had big braids in my hair, because my grandmother didn’t want me to perm it and it is fine with me.
When I got to my first period class, a couple or more of my classmates pointed out my shoes or clothes to their friends and laughed. Some of them even started throwing papers in my direction.
I looked different from everyone else and that was a big problem. When you start junior high, the pressure to fit in and gain respect is intense. The kids who made fun of me were popular— partly because their designer clothes made them seem cool. My clothes made me stand out and gave the others an excuse to pick on me.
I was the perfect target and it wasn’t just because of the way I dressed. I was in a new environment and that made me feel scared and insecure. I was like a fish outside its water bowl. My classmates saw that I was in a position of weakness and wouldn’t stand up for myself. They took advantage of that.
Almost every day, I would be greeted with giggles, pointing, and other demonstrations of their disapproval. For a long time, I didn’t have any friends to back me up and the teacher did nothing to control the students. I felt like everyone was against me, like n one was on my side. Two girls named Luvia and Nefertiti were th main sources of my torment. They would put “kick me” signs o my back, throw papers at me, and make fun of my clothes.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t want to go to school. Whe I got home each day, I would cry and complain to my grandmoth about what was happening, but she was too busy to do anythi about it.
Sometimes she would say, “Ignore them,” or tell me to tell th mothers. Then she would force me to go back to school. She nev really understood how hurt and depressed I was.
I would go to school each day with my heart pounding. I har paid attention and I never really learned anything. It was hard concentrate on my schoolwork. The other students were very ruptive. Because I was quiet, the teacher always pointed me ou an example to the rest of the class. That made things worse for
because I was now considered the teacher’s pet.
I did not want to go to school any more.
To take my mind off the fact that I
might end up in a fight any minute, I’d bring a thick romance
novel to school and just
sit in class and read all day.
Instead of focusing on learning like I
should have, I focused on surviving by losing myself in books.
I did make one friend that year. Her name was Tina. She was really friendly and we had a couple of things in common.
We were both from Jamaica, but Tina had been here for five years. We both had strict families. Tina wore the latest styles of name-brand clothing, just like Luvia and Nefertiti, but unlike them, she never judged me because of the way I dressed.
Tina would defend me when the others were picking on me.
She would tell them to leave me alone and always tried to help
me out. One time, Luvia tried to spite Tina by saying that Tina and
I were sisters. Later that day, I wrote a poem to Tina, titled “You’re
Like a Sister,” and she liked it.
Having Tina as a friend made the days more bearable because I was not entirely alone. But it didn’t make much of a difference in terms of how I was treated by the other kids. In fact, it didn’t make any difference at all.
Around the middle of the school term, I started to think that maybe if I dressed like the rest of them, they wouldn’t bother me so much. I hadn’t made any effort to fit in sooner because I was stubborn. But I was tired of having people treat me like I was beneath them.
One day, I went to school wearing yellow socks and a yellow blouse with a black skirt. Right at the beginning of class, Nefertiti showed Luvia my socks and said, “What are you doing?” with a
won’t look as good as we do.” Not knowing what to say, I turned my back, feeling a little defeated. I went back to wearing my usual outfits.
A month or two later, my uncle’s girlfriend gave me a pair of name-brand sneakers. I wore them to school and I have to admit they gave me a little confidence. I thought I would get acceptance with my new shoes.
When I got to school, one kid actually announced to the class that I had on a name-brand sneaker and everyone looked. But I didn’t feel any more accepted by my peers than I had before.
No matter what I did, they wouldn’t let up. Luvia, in particular, was always throwing things at me or hitting me. I never started anything with her. She was always coming after me. Then the kids she hung around with would tell her how bad she was.
One day in the spring she was in the hallway, surrounded by her friends, when I passed by. When she saw me, she hit me. I didn’t want to fight, so I started to walk by as I usually did. But, for some reason that day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided it had to stop.
So when I saw Luvia in the cafeteria, I went up to her and slapped her face. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor. Luvia was much bigger than I, so it wasn’t much of a surprise when I lost the fight.
Later that day, Luvia and her friends came up to me. She was very upset and kept staring at me, but she didn’t say anything. I went home early.
That night, I told my father how these two girls had been giving me a hard time. He decided to take a day off from work and come to school with me and make a complaint. We went to the counselor’s office. She called in Luvia, sat the two of us down, and asked about what was going on between us. Then she talked to us for a while.
I didn’t really hear what the counselor was saying. I was too busy staring at Luvia and wondering what she thought about all this and what the other kids would think when they heard about it. After my father left, I went back to class. Everyone was looking at me.
After that, Luvia didn’t bother me or throw things at me anymore, but she and her friends still gave me dirty looks.
When I finally finished seventh grade, I had the greatest summer of my life—simply because I had survived. I would stay home most of the time watching television, without anyone tormenting me.
In eighth grade, things got better. Everyone started to settle in and feel more comfortable. They let down some of their guard, which made for a less hostile environment.
My classmates stopped making fun of my clothes. I didn’t really change the way I dressed, but I stopped wearing certain things—like skirts and dresses that made me look like I was going to church.
I got the chance to make new friends because everyone was friendlier. When I really got to know my classmates, I found out they weren’t really bad people. And Luvia and Nefertiti weren’t in any of my classes anymore, which made everything much easier for me. I didn’t dread going to school.
That experience taught me never to judge people by appearance. I never tease anyone because of what they wear or how they look. I’ve also got the best of friends because I didn’t pick them based on how they look, but by getting to know them as individuals.
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