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I can't say I'm sure it was just a race thing. I was starting my career then and felt like he wanted someone more successful and established for his only daughter.

Oh well, I'm established now. I pretty much have dated Latinas and black girls since then. Not really for any particular reason, but just because those are the women I've been drawn to and have been drawn to me.

But I guess I do miss the homemade pizza for dinner, if I'm honest. When I was 15, I started dating this guy who was half Chinese, half Polish, and born in Brazil what a mix!

His dad traveled a lot so I never really got to see him. On my boyfriend's 16th birthday, I was invited over for a family dinner.

It was the first time meeting his parents. Needless to say, I was freaking out. As soon as his dad met me, he said in broken English, "You can date my son all you want, but he has a wife waiting for him in China so you're wasting your time.

I awkwardly smiled, thinking, What the hell did I get myself into? When I thought things couldn't get any worse, dinner was served, and there were only chopsticks for us to use.

I had never in my life even come across these, but I knew that if I wanted the dad to approve of me I had to at least try.

Luckily, my motor skills were on fire and I didn't make a fool out of myself. After that night his dad was actually super friendly and nice.

And no, my boyfriend never married the Chinese woman he had chosen for him. Side note: When my parents found out my boyfriend was half Chinese, they started calling him "Yellow Submarine.

To this day, they still ask me things like, "How's Yellow Submarine doing? Around the time that I finally gained some conviction about myself, I took up with my first white girl.

I was 22 and had never been in a serious relationship with anyone, not even a black girl. So it was destined to be a bad fit.

We still pressed ahead, hard, each the other's first in one way or another. I had no desire to learn anything about country music or wine or eating steak medium rare.

And I let her know it. She made me feel like an oddity at times, from the way I pronounced "ask" to the grade of my pubic hair.

We didn't share much but love and mutual respect. So, obviously, it wasn't enough. I've been in four serious relationships since I picked up my first boyfriend at the local Mexican grocery store really , and three of the four relationships have been with Hispanic men.

I've never thought that said much about me; the numbers there are close enough to mirroring my environment, and I never found any need for self-reflection on the topic.

Still, my "thing" for Latin men has been a persistent joke among friends and family. It's nothing terrible, and these are all accepting people, but it's hard for me to keep my mouth shut when people who've only dated within their own race make jokes about my apparently notable attractions to non-white men.

Aren't they the weird ones? My boyfriends have always been fine as hell. My girlfriend and I were in our early twenties, and we didn't have a particularly openly complicated or interesting relationship around race.

The Midwestern city we lived in was an extremely conservative place, very segregated, but also a place where nobody ever talked about race.

The one thing I only realized afterward was how much shit she was putting up with, as a black person in this conservative city in general, and as a black woman dating a white guy in particular.

Two moments I remember: One time we were walking down the street together and I could just feel her tense up and for a second couldn't figure out why.

Then, I saw a group of black guys a bit older than us across the street just sort of staring at her, not saying anything even.

We didn't talk about it, and I didn't and still don't completely understand the situation. Another time when we were driving separately and I kept nearly blowing lights, she kept falling behind because she was obeying traffic laws.

When we arrived, she said she'd seen a cop and was really avoiding being pulled over in a way I was really not bothering about. I am biracial. After years of torment from peers in nearly exclusively white schools, I began straightening my hair.

After even more years of spending an inordinate amount of money on serums and salon services, I began braiding my hair. And after about two years of making six-hour round-trips for hour braiding sessions every season, I started wearing my hair naturally because life is too damn short.

My decision to go natural has been one of the most overwhelmingly positive choices I've made in my life, and I say this without exaggeration.

However, it does have one drawback: People feel compelled to comment on my hair. I have noticed this particularly among men who try to date me, who in the past years haven't been able to come up with come-ons or opening lines that aren't some variation of "I love your hair," even when they have at their disposal a full profile detailing countless things more interesting about me.

The problem, of course, isn't that it's wrong to love my hair. I love my hair too. It's just that the preponderance of remarks about my hair among potential partners points to a fascination that isn't about celebration, but exotification.

When you say you "love my hair," I hear the high school football player who told his locker room buddies that because I'm half black, half white, I'd be twice as good in bed.

In certain cases, I may be wrong. But I'd rather fail a hearing test than find out. When my boyfriend first messaged me on OkCupid, he teased me about not knowing who Richard Pryor was in the eighth grade.

On our first date, we debated tuna versus salmon in sushi and discussed the etymology of random words. On our second date, we roamed the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens and made friends with a little girl named Sophia.

At this point, we've been dating for seven months and he has still never told me, "I love your hair. My experience with interracial dating in the South as a gay black man has been emotionally exhausting.

Did it seem too risky to let her daughter go into such an unknown experience? After all, at that point peaceful protesters had been beaten, sprayed with firehoses, taken to jail.

If he had asked me, would it have been different? He and I talked more about politics and what was going on in the world.

These questions cannot be answered. My parents are not alive to explore them with me. As an adult, I did ask my mother what she remembered of the conversation.

Her version was simple. My journal entry for August 28, , borrowing language from the media:. The Race Equality Demonstration is over and leaves a lasting impression on the world.

Why they have more cars and refrigerators, etc. The judgment of freedom!!! I wish the whole damn problem would be solved. If they had another March, I would go.

But the image I came back to again and again was one of the marchers, black and white, men and women, sitting along the edge of the fountain, cooling their feet in the water.

The conversation with my mother is an example of how white liberal conditioning is transmitted through ambivalence and what is not said. We white people rarely know how to talk about race without self-consciousness, discomfort, or free-floating guilt.

We often resort to platitudes or rhetoric for lack of connection to our own feelings. But mostly we are silent. By someone else, somehow, someday.

I chose not to go to the March on Washington. But I realize now that not going changed my life, too. Reminders of the March continued to affect me.

At a speech-writing seminar at my corporate job, I was suddenly moved to tears, my diligent note-taking interrupted by the voice of Martin Luther King filling the room, and a piercing sensation that I was only now hearing him for the first time.

One night on the way to visit a friend, I happened to turn on NPR. Moments later, I sat weeping in the front seat of the car listening to a replay of New York radio commentator Jean Shepherd describing the joy and excitement of people on the streets as they welcomed the buses rolling into Washington, DC for the March.

I still have the Life Magazine article with pictures of the March. There is Martin Luther King smiling, his hand reaching out over the crowd.

There are the people sitting on the edge of the reflecting pool, cooling their feet in the water. It is still my favorite. I started with myself.

The journey of coming to see my own conditioning as a white person and how that has shaped my life, has led to writing this today. I invite conversations about race and racism on this blog and in my life.

I teach workshops for white people, so they can make the kind of difference they want to make in the world. I continue to find my own ways of making a difference, by arriving here in this moment, and being ready to take the next step.

Our societal silence makes room for inventive new forms of discrimination, while it blocks our efforts to change rules that disadvantage people of color.

Unless we say what we mean, we cannot redefine how racism works or drive the debate toward equity.

Has anything about the March on Washington affected your life personally? If so, how? Did you learn about it in school? What were you taught? How did your family respond to social justice issues when you were growing up?

Do you remember any events in particular and how you were encouraged or not encouraged to take action? As a little girl, it never occurred to me that being born white had meaning in and of itself.

I would have felt insulted at the idea that I had advantages simply because I was white. The idea of white privilege went against everything I had learned about who I was.

After all, my father worked very hard. I wore hand-me-downs to school and ice cream was a rare treat. I firmly believed that anybody who tried hard enough could succeed in life, and that in America everyone had the same chances.

White was just something I happened to be. Nonetheless, white privilege had shaped my life long before I was born.

Puritans and Quakers from England, they landed in the colonies of Massachusetts and Pennsylvania more than one hundred years before the United States was formed.

My genealogy reflects the story of America, from one point of view — that of early white colonists, pioneers, and homesteaders. Digging deeper, I realized my ancestors were in the early wave of immigrants who drove out or killed the Wampanoags, the Pequots, the Abenaki, and other indigenous people living in the Northeast.

I inherited the privilege that came with my ancestry and its bloody history, along with my red hair and freckles. And I had no doubt that I was an American, that I belonged.

My whiteness was an invisible factor in that identity. The Naturalization Act was a long time ago. Some years ago, a young white friend was talking about how hard it was for her to get any information about her heritage from her Portuguese and Czechoslovakian grandparents, who had emigrated in the early 20 th century.

The conditions of belonging: sacrifice your past, your family lore, language, costumes, and celebrations. So, my image of immigrants when I was growing up did not include my own ancestors.

In the powerful diversity film, The Color of Fear , the men of color discuss whether or not they identify as Americans. Despite the fact that people of African descent were legally given the rights of citizenship in , efforts to keep them from voting have persisted right up to the present day.

What unconscious messages do children growing up in the U. Being a melting pot was okay as long as most of the people looked like us white folks.

That idea may shift the conversation a little bit, but it can also become another way to ignore the complex history that got us here, including our own privilege.

And to avoid feeling the painful fact that there are people who have been in the U. Do you know when and how your ancestors came to the U. Anything about their struggles and successes?

What images did you have of immigrants? Who were they? How were they described? We are not the colour of snow or bleached linen, nor are we uniquely virtuous and pure.

Yet images of white people are recognizable by virtue of colour. As a child, I loved colors—from my first set of Crayolas, eight fat sticks of red-orange-yellow-green-blue-purple-brown-black—to the delicious array of 48 shades and hues in the big boxed set, with names like Burnt Sienna and Midnight Blue.

It was also fascinating to learn about color in science class—the spectrum of the rainbow, the luminosity of a prism.

I also learned the colors of the four races of people: red, yellow, white, and black. Each group was from a different part of the world originally—red from America, yellow from Asia, white from Europe and black from Africa—and together they made up the whole of the human race.

I pictured these colors in my mind as a circle divided into four, each quadrant an equal part of the whole.

It was a very satisfying image. Some of my friends were very tan. The whole idea of races being colors was only symbolic, I realized.

Still, I believed the categories were real and meant something. But what did they mean? In the s, growing up in Vermont in a white liberal family, the concept was pretty abstract and not associated with people I knew.

Race seemed to be some combination of biological and geographic factors. People were born as a particular race and most people in certain parts of the world were of a particular race.

There were also other associations with color, particularly black and white. The white knight was the good knight, the black knight was the bad one.

White was pure and good, black was evil, although the devil was red. There was black magic practiced by wicked witches who wore black robes and pointed hats, and white magic practiced by good witches like Glinda in the Wizard of Oz , who really looked more like a fairy princess.

A nineteenth century schoolbook, discovered in my family archives, lays out a grade school curriculum for teachers.

When races differ in regard to their way of living and their intelligence, we say that they differ in civilization.

While this overtly racist text would never be taught in schools today, I can see and feel how the attitudes are still alive under the surface, in our collective conditioning, in myself.

Today, we know that the concept of race is not based in genetics, but is a social construct. The character attributes of different races were assigned.

By whom? The repercussions of this pervade our institutions, our relationships with each other, and our unconscious minds.

Historically, white people have decided who gets to be white, and that has changed over time. There is so much to say about this text!

But to bring it into the present, how do we teach children about race, ethnicity and what color means today?

We know children notice differences at age three or four, and skin color is one marker they perceive. Even more challenging is talking about white as an identity.

As long as whiteness remains invisible, we will not be aware that we are looking through a lens that colors everything we see.

How do you talk about race and ethnicity with children in your life, either as a parent, a teacher or friend?

What resources do you know about that can help others talk about this topic? It is with heavy heart that I look upon what happened to my People…The Pilgrims had hardly explored the shores of Cape Cod before they had robbed the graves of my ancestors, and stolen their corn, wheat, and beans…Massasoit, the great leader of the Wampanoag, knew these facts, yet he and his People welcomed and befriended the settlers…little knowing that…before 50 years were to pass, the Wampanoags and other Indians living near the settlers would be killed by their guns or dead from diseases that we caught from them.

For example, rather than a total wilderness, the Pilgrims landed near Pawtuxet, an empty village with cleared land for crops, the Wampanoag inhabitants having been wiped out by plague probably smallpox brought by previous Europeans.

As a child I had imagined the Indians silently showing the Pilgrims how to plant corn, because they had no common language.

And how he came to speak English is an adventure tale in itself, involving kidnapping by the English, being enslaved in Spain, his escape and finally, his return home to find everyone in his village had died.

In actuality, the national holiday in late November was proclaimed by Abraham Lincoln in , during the Civil War.

And the proclamation makes no mention whatsoever of Pilgrims. The hopefulness depicted here was soon dashed with Jim Crow and other laws that made it hard for many to exercise that right.

In actuality, that first feast at Plimoth Plantation celebrating the harvest was a European tradition that coincided with the local native tradition of harvest celebrations.

There are lots of resources online for those curious to know more. And it is good to know more.

We can take it upon ourselves to be myth-busters, to not pass on a simplistic story of togetherness that makes white Americans feel good, when the legacy of what came afterwards is still felt in the continued injustices of today.

To be around with people I love. To have good food. To be happy. Yes, last night I made a pumpkin pie. And my heart is full of gratitude for all the wonderful people in my life and for the good fortune I have.

On Black Friday, the big shopping day after Thanksgiving, the Ohlone and other indigenous people here in the San Francisco Bay Area gather with friends and allies at the memorial Shellmound in Emeryville.

They are protesting the building of the Bay Street Mall on the graves of thousands of their ancestors and the desecration of other sacred sites.

I hope some day to become a teacher of social studies and a high school counselor and advisor. We believe we can, through our teaching, help to eliminate racial and religious prejudice.

My parents were idealists. I thought racists were very bad, mean people who mostly lived in the South. An unconscious aspect of this belief was that if you were smart enough to know that racism is a bad thing, then you were already better than those other white people who were racists.

Fast forward to the s. I had graduated from Antioch College, lived and worked in much more diverse environments than Vermont, and ended up in the San Francisco Bay Area.

Then, one afternoon in the s at a Carter family reunion in Hampton, Iowa, where my father grew up, he dropped a quiet bomb. Our grandfather in the K.

Would we have asked her? Would we have wanted to know? Maybe it was just once , I thought, scrambling to excuse it, deny its significance.

Maybe my grandfather just went along because, because — there was no getting around it —- because he held racist beliefs, anti-Semitic beliefs. How long had Dad known this about his father?

Had he forgotten it until that moment, left it buried in the emotional landscape of his hometown until recalled on this tour of the sites of his youth?

He had a terrible temper, but had lots of friends and loved dancing — in fact, he allowed his children to play music and dance on Sundays, which scandalized their neighbors.

He was head usher at the fundamentalist Church of Christ, and one year was elected Grand Master of the local Oddfellows.

Researching further, I discovered that in the mids, a Ku Klux Klan revival was in full swing, inspired by D. The Klan had chapters in almost every state, including Iowa.

As a result, church members formed the mainstay of the K. As in other states, the Klan became a force in politics, backing candidates for governor, the U.

Senate, and local school boards. But was the Klan active in Hampton itself? When I called the Franklin County Historical Society to find out, I was nervous, feeling strangely exposed, as though even asking about the Klan were dangerous somehow.

Some visceral fear that the Klan would find out and target me? That the historian would think I was a Klan sympathizer?

A thick manila envelope arrived with the contents of their K. Heart beating a little fast, I carefully slit open the envelope. The public festivities included music, sports, a parade, national speakers, and fireworks in the evening.

Admission 25 cents. There it was. Indisputable evidence. My grandfather could easily have attended this event, been drawn to the excitement. Then a more dreaded thought came: Was he one of the marchers in the parade wearing a white hooded robe?

Oh, no. How much easier it was to imagine him as merely a curious spectator! My dad was three years old in when the Klan came to town.

In Iowa, the American Legion, local farm bureaus, feisty newspaper editors, and others organized to eventually defeat Klan-backed candidates and rid their communities of K.

I wish my grandfather had been one of them. And if the Klan had not been stopped by others, how far would he have gone along with them?

In his generation, racism was still a matter of conscious belief. The ideal was to be colorblind. College classes and corporate diversity trainings shed light on this formerly invisible aspect of social conditioning.

Wash off armpits and apply a thick layer of perfume all over body. No time to wash face? Too LAZY to wash face? No problem!

Okay, not ALL girls do this, and certainly not all of the time. My current situation describes the latter. Reblogged this on human word vomit.

There no different than you so go out and approach them! Reblogged this on yagyrlr and commented: This is hilarious!

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