Apparently I was never able to accurately do this from the ages of 6 to about 13.  I didn’t live the safest, cleanest neighborhood in the city which had shit sprawled across the local football field from the neighboring homes that weaved their dogs in and out of the heavy sandbags players pushed during practice.  There was also the corner store that would become abandoned every three months or so following an intense robbery or drug deal gone wrong leaving behind empty freezers and gang graffiti spelling out a person’s name with the last letter “cleverly” replaced the a “Z;”  ”Lucus” became “Lucuz” in the Fall and Winter while “Stephen” became “Stephez” in the Spring and Summer.  My parents knew of what went on in our neighborhood and I was never allowed to play outside for fear that I may get kidnapped and sold into little Asian girl slavery or have my head blown off by an assault rifle whilst riding my tricycle up and down the street.  But this rule only applied to me, of course, as my brother was happy to do as he pleased outdoors.  Each year when it snowed he played football with his friends two blocks away in their backyard.  Do they not care about my brother being held as a slave? I would think to myself.  Sure girls are longed after for sexual purposes and viewed as weaker of the two sexes but my brother was no Hercules as he stood shorter than average boys his age and was approximately 10lbs overweight at this time.  I figured someone could always use a small boy to chain down in their backyard to break up rocks with a hammer or scrub off the sidewalk on a humid, dry day.  And I knew my brother was not invincible against bullets. Sure he probably runs faster than me because his legs are longer and boys would push themselves to the brink of spontaneous combustion to beat their sisters at a race but no one is faster than a bullet (besides Superman of course) and so I went on being bitter and resentful.
I had decided to ask my mother about all of this during a monthly trip to the Asian supermarket.  I was also always expected to join my parents when they would run errands which I didn’t mind because the Asian Supermarket was far more entertaining than a standard American market.  Everything was fresh and alive and I found humor in making faces at all the fish waiting to be decapitated and taken home swimming in murky water.  These supermarkets always held a musty smell from these fish which mixed with the odor of an old freezer stuck with dried Coke that had exploded from an absentminded individual too impatient to cool down their drink with ice and too distracted to remember they were thirsty.  The live produce was also sad at times and made me happy to not have barbaric Vietnamese parents who would bash frogs’ heads with rolling pins or tear out the soft bodies of turtles from their shells.  I always begged for candy and was allowed to purchase one bag of white rabbit candy which was vanilla flavored taffy wrapped in rice paper that dissolved and melted into a warm sugar jolt puddle on my tongue.  Whilst holding onto my candy and strolling with my mother past the pork butt and wonton wrappers I brought up the topic of my brother not because I believed there was a alternative explanation but because I wanted justification and some form of honesty from my parents.
“Mom,” I asked “Why does Luan (pronounced Lung) get to do things with his friends and I don’t?”"Don’t ask that question” my mother replied, pushing the cart and acknowledging the fish monger waving to her  down the aisle.”Why not? He gets to play outside and go over his friend’s houses but I can’t do that.”"Don’t compare.”"Well I want to know,” I began to whine “it’s just not fair.”"Not fair, not fair that’s all you ever say.” She mocked, “He is your brother that is why he can do those things.”"So is it because he is a boy?” I asked as I eagerly looked up towards my mother who had stopped her cart and began rummaging through a pile of plastic wrapped dried fish.She took a deep sigh and shook her head, pursing her lips as her eyebrows frowned and refused to answer me.
I no longer asked from this point forward and went about staying indoors playing with my plastic kitchen and learning all about American culture from “The Wonder Years” and “MTV” while my brother ran up and down the street dousing his friends with water from his Super Soaker.  
When I was about 10 or so I began to partake in sleep overs at my best friends home.  She was one of few white girls who lived in my neighborhood and everyone at school, along with my family, knew she was my best friend.  We did pretty much everything together; wore the same types of clothing, had similar lunch boxes, listened to the same music and, evidently, spoke the same as well.  I truly enjoyed spending time with her and never found there to be anything wrong with us being friends.  I knew we were racially and ethnically different but from all of the television shows I watched on WHYY this wasn’t an issue; I was just expected to be a nice person which, being young and having no bills or real responsibilities to measure this, I thought I was.  Fellow classmates disagreed to what was shown on television and read to them in books about Pocohontas and the colors of the wind.  To them my race mattered which essentially made up a large part of who I was and I was expected to “act where I came from.”  
I learned this whilst sitting in my language arts class next with a boy named Anthony.  Anthony had been in my previous grades but I paid him no mind as he never paid me any of his.  He was somewhat of a bully in school; the type of kid that pushed smaller kids around in a fit to make himself feel better about his weight, copied off of everyone else’s test paper, stole lunches from people’s back packs and ate them in their faced while he laughed and spit crumbs all over their desks.  I was never victim to any of these things but I did not like him and chose to stay away from him in a way that Hush Puppy stayed away from Charlie Horse during an episode of Lambchop’s Play Along I watched over the summer.  I had most of my classes with him and he had a few with my best friend so he frequently saw us spend time with one another.  We were completing reading exercises where we read a short story and answered several open ended questions.  We were expected to answer these properly, meaning we had to reiterate in the answer in our questions.   I took great pride in being an A student and thoroughly enjoyed being proper whilst following the instructions.  I often volunteered to read my answers when we reviewed the questions.
“Why did Mr. Frog and Mr. Pig walk to the end of the forest instead of crossing the river for their food and shelter?” my teacher asked.I diligently raised my hand up high and the teacher scoured the outstretched arms, calling on a student who gave the incorrect answer then it was my turn.”Mr. Frog and Mr. Pig walked to the end of the forest instead of crossing the river for their food and shelter because they wanted to visit lonely Mr. Rabbit to make him feel better and be his friend.” I answered.”That is correct!” the teacher exclaimed.
“That is correct,” Anthony mocked, “white girl!”The class began to chuckle while the teacher moved on, attempting to ignore what was said.
A few more questions had been answered but only raised my hand for a few as I was slightly confused by the remark Anthony had made.  When I was called upon to read what I had written again he continued with the heckling.”Way to go white girl” he cheered and more laughter ensued, this time at a higher volume and more people joining in.”Focus class!  Anthony stop it!” the teacher attempted to reconcile the laughter.

I sat completely embarrassed and bewildered.  I had been in this school since the first grade and not one person had ever spoken to me about race.  It became a topic that was used to educate others through scenarios developed for entertainment but something I had dismissed as ever happening to me.  It was one of those scary situations where I would place myself into the shoes of the victim and attempted to find comfort in knowing since I was nice no one would ever have the heart to painfully tell me I was different.  I knew I was Asian and was always proud of it and while there was nothing wrong in being white my classmates said it in a cruel way, pairing with other insults that suggested it was negative to be told you are another race when you are, in fact, not.  It struck a chord of shame in me as if I was placing great insult on my family and culture for speaking and acting a certain way which was the only way I ever learned how to be.  More and more people began to call me “white girl.”  When I refused to help someone cheat on a test or “have” my mechanical Hello Kitty pencil they insulted me.
“You’re so mean white girl.” a Korean boy would say.”I’m not white” I yelled back “I’m Vietnamese!”"Then why do you talk white?” he asked sticking up his nose and closing his eyes as if he had just made a statement that would end all arguments we had from that point forward.
I didn’t have an answer but I was baffled by this response.  Talk white? I thought to myself.  How can you speak like a color?  The difficult part was even my father would claim I was “white” one evening whilst watching an episode of “The Simpsons.”
“What is this cartoons?  Are you too old for cartoons?” he asked in Vietnamese.”But I like this show.” I told my dad who was motioning for me to hand over the remote.”Yeah?  You watch this over your friend house too?  You are white just like them.” And he switched programming over to CNN.  
I truly disliked that so many people were calling me “white girl” and even tried to stay home with my mother so I wouldn’t have to hear it.  When she asked me why I wanted stay home I made up lies about throwing up in the toilet or having temporary blindness.  I was too ashamed to say people were calling me “white” for fear that she would also tell me I was and only make me feel worse.  She yelled and threw my clothes at me telling me to get dressed.  I did this and soon I felt as if I only had one friend, my white friend, and all others had isolated me; treating me as if I was a trader of  my tribe choosing to take part in the slavery of my indigenous, ethnic people for wealth and companionship.  When my best friend moved the following year and attended another school the name calling continued and I was left with little options.  I wanted to know what exactly I could do to change their perceptions of me so I tried to not “talk white.”  
According to my classmates, this meant that I was to “talk black” which, in turn, was how the rappers spoke on the MTV music videos I had watched. Seeing as in my neighborhood everyone spoke this way, black or not, I was expected too as well.  I watched reruns of “The Jeffersons” and “The Fresh Prince of Bel Air” attempting to learn what it meant to do this.  I also listened to my brothers Bone Thugs-N-Harmony CDs and read the lyrics from Tupac albums.  I believe I learned more about “bitches,” “40s” and how people had parties during the first of the month more than anything else.  I had no idea what I was doing and felt completely uncomfortable speaking in broken slang but I wanted to try my best to let everyone know I was Asian.  I briefly contemplated turning over to broken English which was common among many of the Cambodian and Korean students in my class.

“I walk-ded to da store” I would say to myself twisting my hand towards the ground and making a scissor motion with my index and ring finger.
“Teacha! I dun undastand! Why you no halp me?” I yelled flailing my arms in the air.  I didn’t imagine I could do this for much longer and believe my teachers would have an anerism listening to me read aloud so it was out of the question.
The following morning when my father dropped me off at school I entered the school yard and searched for classmates who had led the brigade of insults.  I saw Anthony who was standing against the wall closest to the front door, one knee bent with his foot on the side of the building the other planted on the floor talking to another boy who often joined in on the laughing.
“Anthony!” I said, walking towards him.
“Hey, like, how it is going white girl?” he put his hands on his hip and tilted his neck, twirling his finger at the base of his neck.”Yo, don’t call me dat aight?” I immediately snapped, staring him down placing my hands on my hips and pushing my neck forward.”Ummm what?”I sucked on my teeth, “I saaaaaid don’t call me dat!  I ain’t white, aight?” Anthony and the boy stared at me, their mouths slightly open as I hoped they would and beam with pride that I was finally not “talking white.”  Instead they burst into laughter.”What? Now you’re trying to talk black?  You so crazy white girl” he scoffed and walked to stand in our designated class lines.
I was at a lost of what to do with the concept of fitting in, “talking white,” having friends or anything else that involved engaging with people who only acknowledged how I spoke and acted not what I said or did.  I eventually stuck to myself and my teachers who cared about how I did in school, constantly telling me I was a great person and had tremendous talent.  It was more of a self esteem boost than I ever received at home or from my classmates.  Eventually, about a year before I began high school, people stopped calling me names because I realized I stopped allowing it to bother me.  I believe I over came all of it once I acknowledged that some people are born and bred to define others by what their eyes can only see.  Every so often I hear a person in passing call me white and it brings back these memories to remind me of what it meant to lose the innocence in believing the world was created equal, something I have come to ensure my children understand is possible in their hearts and how they treat others, in spite of backlash they themselves may receive.

I will always take pride in being from North Philadelphia and the unsightly images and richness I was exposed to where changes were not left just to the seasons.  A part of this city taught me how to love myself because it always loved me and I plan to continue holding responsibility to that faithfulness.

I am addicted to shows like Scared Straight and The First 48.  A&E has some terrific crime shows.  But there seems to be a common thread on these shows; young Black men.  On The First 48, we see nothing but Black men committing crimes and becoming the victim of crimes.  The cases are bizarre, yet fascinating.  The show has spent enough time in Birmingham Alabama and Miami Florida to give anyone pause for leaving the tourist areas of either town.

Scared Straight would leave you with the impression that there is not any hope for young Black kids.  Routinely, young Black boys, and in some rare cases young Black girls go through the program indifferent, unafraid, unaffected by what they see in jail.  None of the kids have committed real crimes; a young Black girl is violent and likes to fight, a young Black male likes to smoke weed or steal, but the parents send their children to the program in hopes that they will change.

Not even the young nerds on the show are able to get themselves together.  Kids that would obviously get picked on and should not even be in a juvenile detention center, let alone a real jail.  Have things changed that much with young Black kids?

So if a Southern man felt that a Black woman was alright why are we still talking about this 44 years after the fact?  This is pure insanity; Black women have a hard time with Black men.  Some have a hard time getting one to commit to them, some have a hard time getting one to hold down a job, some have a hard time getting a Black man to publicly acknowledge the relationship, no matter how you look at it, Black men and Black women have some communication issues.  The lack of respect, and of taking each other seriously, goes both ways.

Would you rather just expect that these Black women continue to stay at home, or continue to pursue relationships with Black men that do not work out?  You never really know if you like something unless you try it; Black men have “tried out” White woman for decades, eons, it probably happened during slavery.

We don’t own Black women, and we shouldn’t want to.  If you are in a partnership, long term relationship, or marriage to a Black women, those are that women that you concern yourself with.  What happens with Black women that do not know me, would not care to know me, and for the most part, are not interested in Black men is not any concern of mine.  It goes back to antiquated ideas of some mystical Black race and mythological Black community that does not exist through the means in which a lot of us would like to think that it exists.  Everyone has their own mind, and everyone is doing their own thing.

Our level of concern, our appreciation, and our admiration of Black women has to go beyond what is merely sexual, and evolve into something completely different.  Because that is what the opposition comes down to.  There are still plenty of Black women that desire to be with a Black man.  Even if that were not the case, it would not matter, just learn to evole and change and respond to the circumstances, and cross that bridge when one absoltely has to do so.

Related articles

• Teaching White Boys to Dance and Other Solutions to the Black Marriage Crisis (crunkfeministcollective.wordpress.com)
• Tracee Ellis Ross Tells Truth About Black Women and Marriage (interrace.wordpress.com)

Image by nick step via Flickr

THE COUPLE NICK CANNON AND MARIAH CAREY:

Is it me or do they make a very interesting couple?  They really don’t seem to fit at all, however.   Remember, Mariah is older, once marry to one of the biggest Music Moguls, Tommy Matola.  Then she and Tommy divorce and sometime during the early 2000s she loses her voice and you hear that she is having emotional issues. I sort of suspected why this happened to her, and when someone touched on the reason for her issues, they were surprisingly close to my reasoning.  But that’s not the point.  I love Mariah, love her singing but her persona has always been a little confusing to me.  Then she marries Nick Cannon and I am truly confused, thinking  that he looks like a guy I would have thought as Dorky-Cute in High School…sort of like a little brother and if I had dated him, I would’ve ended up liking him more than loving him.  But hey, that’s just me. 

It was during the Barbara Walters Interview that I really became  fascinated with the two.  The question that Barbara asked, if Mariah trusted Nick, Mariah looks at Nick and says “I don’t know, should I trust you?”.  Nick seems a little surprised by that question but his face is hard to read.  Still you felt that he couldn’t believe she asked him that. Such a candid moment, a real moment that shows that no matter how famous a woman gets, a woman still has her thoughts.  Mariah re-acted similarly to what I and a lot of other girls would have.  I mean can you really say you trust your man?  Even if you do, you  may not say so.  To say so is a little too dramatic, a little too mushy and a sort of ‘why ask’ question.  Now, bottom line, Nick is obviously in love and Mariah seems content but I just had the feeling that she may be more assertive than he is in the marriage.  I just picked it up in their dialogue.  Nick Cannon is no slacker, it’s obvious that he could have gotten whatever type of girl he wanted because he has money and so does Mariah.  Two people that hitch up with one being unknown or poor is one thing.  Two people hitching up on similar ground is another.  I love the twins, I love both Nick and Mariah, but interesting?  You best believe they are to me!

Condoleeza Rice:

Where is Condoleeza’s  man, boyfriend or husband?  She has dated an Athlete I know and is rumored to be dating some Prime Minister now.  But she keeps quiet.  Oh, she is such a lady!  Say what you want about the Bush Administration, I like this lady because she is so accomplished, brilliant and one of the youngest Secretary of States you’ve met, if not the youngest.  And she was such a lady in doing so.   She’s poised, speaks her mind and makes risky statements to some people.  She was asked on the View why there were two Caucasian gentlemen that were her first role models.  Condoleeza cut through the chase stating that you cannot wait for a particular ethnicity of someone to become your role model, that you take what is available.  There were no Blacks in what she was pursuing at the time and found role models in another ethnic group.  You know, that doesn’t sound odd to me at all! 

Now, to be honest, I think this woman is living a charmed life, a life I would have liked to have experienced had I been in her field of work or any other work for that matter.  Being Black and a Republican is her business.  This is a free country.  I don’t state my political affiliation because I am very much Independent, voting my conscious more than a party or a man.  Why can’t she choose to be what she wants as well?  Her life could be quite simple and a little dull to some by comparison, but I think it’s charmed just the same.  Think of her experiences, the people that she’s met and the world she’s traveled. 

Mrs. Jackson (Michael’s Mother)

Have you ever met that person that looks as though they have a whole lot in their head and is screaming to get out?  That’s how I feel about Mrs. Jackson.  The second year into the death of her Famous son and yet you’ve heard very little of her still.  Admittedly, I saw a few interviews with her and found out that she still goes out in the Community spreading Jehovah’s Word but that doesn’t tell me how she feels.  She is and has always been the Matriarch of the family.  Her husband philandered on her but you never heard or saw signs of bitterness, happiness, anger, joy.  She’s so very quiet.  I’d just like to ask her first, how it felt to raise such a handsome and talented bunch of children in that small, one bedroom home in Gary, Indiana.  Then I’d like to know how it felt to lose Michael.  Only a mother knows.  I’m a mother.  But I cannot imagine since there was so much publicity surrounding her son’s passing and finally that unfair trial.  I just wonder how she feels about it.

Teena Marie:

Seems like Mainstream America was not ready to hear this Caucasian female, once a protege and lover of Rick James, come into her own.  I don’t call this woman a Soul Singer.  I cannot stand titles like that. I would say that she sang so soulfully, so melodically and wrote great songs as well.  She was a Musician and performed with her family before meeting with a Black girl while in High School and began to look for jobs singing in L.A.  I do recall that the Black Community embraced her like WOW.  I introduced her music to family and friends.  She had one of the most beautiful voices around. 

Instead of her going big, I look up and there is an uninspiring singer by the name of Madonna and Cyndi Lauper.  I did not find one song of theirs that I liked but do admit that they are both very creative, very campy and could be called original.  The only thing is that the more original and different folks try to be, the more they seem the SAME.  That’s just my humble opinion.  Still Teena Marie  was very much herself, sweet, earthy and talented, went on to Motown and another big label and made a great impression in the music world creating some chart-topping songs.  She came to my hometown in the 1990’s and gave one of the most brilliant shows you can imagine.  She passed away this year and it’s pretty much hard to bear, being such a fan of hers.  To me, in this era of female singers, I say none could touch Chaka Khan and Teena Marie.  Now I have only Chaka Khan!

Image via Wikipedia

Jodie Weiss:

He was our Chief Of Police until the new Mayor took over.  To be honest, I want to know who our Police Chief is now…do we still have the Interim Hilliard who was once the Police Chief?  Nothing against the gentleman Mr. Hilliard, but crime was raging then.  Mr. Weiss, an FBI man had bought the numbers down.  I am native Chicagoan, I know when crime in our City is up or down.  Seems like jealousy doesn’t let ordinary Police embrace a real FBI man which I think would have been a plus to the Men in Blue.  Not.  It’s something about outsiders in this City.  We’d never had such a man and it is still obvious to me that we need them!

Every single time I watched an interview with Mr. Weiss I felt bad for him.  Bad because he was not appreciated.  This man always spoke in a calm tone, always articulated his points very well and took ridicule like a man.

The Rapper Common:

Even though you can read a lot about him, he is still very interesting.  Commons’s real name is Lonnie Rashid Lynn, Jr.  I’m not a big ole Rap Lover, get me right, but I saw him perform on television last night and it renewed the fact that some Rap Artists are really, really cool.  But it doesn’t stop there for Common.  He has a lengthy career in Movies, Music, Videos, Television and his commercials did send me to the Gap!  He is  a young man from my hometown as well, even growing up on the South Side as I did.  He has a daughter and has dated the likes of Eryka Badu and Serena Williams.  Seems to me he likes earthy types.  I may be a little too flighty for him….besides being too old.  That is okay, he is still cute.  But honestly, I’d just like to sit down and talk about his Chicago roots and how he perceives our city.  He’s Christian and I know we could share our ideas on what it means to be Christians.  To put it out there as I see it, he is one Classy Guy from Chi-Town and would certainly interesting for any smart girl to meet!

AMY WINEHOUSE:

I watched her father speak on  the fact that one of her Posthumous songs has gone big.  He says that he is bursting with pride but of course his hurt is still raw and can’t listen too much.  I can understand it.  Unlike a lot of out of control substance abusers and troubled entertainers, Ms. Winehouse did have a wonderful support system in her family.  Such a tragic brilliant and talented figure gone far too soon.  Nothing much to say about Ms. Winehouse but my personal opinion.  I didn’t get a chance to even know her that much musically because her reputation with substance abuse always superseded what she was actually doing.  So I didn’t get to witness enough of her talent.  Now that she’s gone, I can listen and see what the love for her was all about.  Brilliance.

I am no ‘culture vulture’ if I may say so.  For me culture is nothing but a way of life that has crystallized over millennium of years (why even in day today or wok a day life we hear of ‘cultured family ‘work-culture’ etc.) into a heritage.   It is not as though ‘heritage’ is an insular or impervious entity.  It has to be adaptive to ‘welcome’ changes – say those which will upgrade the life or enable it to keep pace with the changing times.  But the core or the quintessence of culture admittedly is some thing sacrosanct and not to be smothered. 

Now comes the relevance of education.  While it cannot be equated with culture, it is not antithetical either, as many in a half-baked or hurried way will like to dismiss it.  Education is nothing but compressed experience conveyed for easy and early assimilation.  If certain ‘experiences’ in this sense can be dove tailed to our way of life for ‘that’ improvement in quality of life, concept of “non-changing culture” should not be a hurdle or hindrance to such edifying ‘experience’ being used.

Take for instance music.  The educative part of it especially – in classical or carnatic – which entailed earlier gurukul vasa concept in which the student or disciple learnt the three R’s connected with music by being with the master years together and spending days on for riaz/sathaha.  But today, the dynamic world we live in, we have sishyas turned out in fast track as it were who give ‘capsuled concerts’ which also suits the ‘rasikas‘ in a hurry.  If gurukul or gharana system is bluntly insisted under the garb of “preserving” culture, neither will there be musicians nor rasikas to talk about.  In a manner of speaking, we should be happy that in the current capsuled or compressed concerts essential trappings of the music is retained. 

Same holds good in games – cricket for example where arguably the ‘one dayers’ has definitely saved cricket being dead as a dodo, which will have happened if purists had a say and 5 dayers had been thrust down the unwilling throats of the aficionados on the plea of preserving culture connected with cricket. 

In both the cases, music and cricket as long as they are not reduced to pantomime / tom

foolery for ‘popularizing’ these we should feel happy that there is no injury to connected culture.  It is relevant however to echo the feelings of Lata Mangeshkar who was critical of the so called ‘ re mixes’ of old semi classicals which are displayed visually in a vulgar way by obnoxious gyrations to tunes totally different from the ones  that haunted the mind pleasingly for so long.  It is such stuffs that “cultural shocks” are made of.

Two more instances where ‘changes’ have happened for over all benefit without ‘mauling’ or ‘smothering’ culture.  Banks of yester years harped on ‘savings’.  Today the slogan can perhaps be ‘spend’.  There are so many schemes which have helped people become more mobile and live securely and comfortably under new and better roofs.   These all helps people more comfortably placed and keep pace with fast and modern times.

Another is the farm front.  Years back when tractors came about for the first time there were protests galore from traditional farmers.  They went to the extent of saying “machine will hurt mother earth”, “the produce will not taste good” and the like.   Can we have managed ‘Green revolution’ and self sufficiency in agri products with bulls and ploughs?  Tractors have come to stay and so are other mechanical gadgets, and yet agriculture, a strategic facet of our culture is not injured.

Like education, two other ‘presumed’ equations for culture are – language and religion.  Many times this is exploited to spawn the unwelcome parochialism and fanaticism.  Just because we learn another language it does not mean the mother tongue is given the go by.  You can be a linguist and yet contribute to the growth of your language by translating good literary work in other languages in your mother tongue for the benefit of those who know only their mother tongue.  Like wise the good work in your mother tongue can be translated into other languages for the benefit of others.  In both the mother tongue automatically gets ‘promoted’ and not ‘perished’.

Religion, easily the worse of the two agent provocateurs, has of late is producing ‘terrorists’ instead of saints it used to earlier.  Why like in tourism, replete with classifications, we have now a classification called ‘religious terrorists’.  Religion to me is all about guidelines enshrined for a moral and good life.  But somewhere down the line this has been truncated and twisted to strike at the very root of “life” – not to talk of good one at that.

Education should enable us to rogue out non-essentials and misinterpreted facts from religion lest it becomes a bundle of superstitions and take us down the path of intolerance and convert us gradually from an innocuous religious lot to hard core fundamentalists via fanaticism. 

Education, religion and modern concepts in any field of activity, that contribute for comfort and convenience without compromising our value system should all go to make ‘culture’ a dynamic concept and help us in retaining, in an essential way, our way of life – yes good one most certainly.

In this scheme of things respect for the elders and the educated, consideration for the aged, disabled and the down trodden must be reinstated.  There must be tolerance for others points of view and an altitude of learning and imbibing to improve at whatever stage and wherever it is from.  An entity directing us towards all above is nothing but ‘culture’.

Every morning for breakfast, I make myself a smoothie; the basis is all White (milk, vanilla powder, yogurt).  In an effort to avoid the mundane, like many other Americans, I place colorful fruits in the mixture so as to fool myself of the actual components and think of my creation as exotic.  This blender theory is applicable in the exact opposite way to race.  If we consider people of color as blenders and White people as the creators, it is clear the more White culture mixed into the smoothie, the more previous cultures are diluted, and ultimately destroyed with the exception of the slight reminiscence of a darker shade.  In the instance of White racism, discrimination is not the sole application; abolition is also vital to cultural genocide.  What I coin as the blender theory is easily seen through much of American History, the most prevalent being “kill the Indian, save the man” (Keohane 1870).

One of the largest perpetuates of the blender theory effectiveness is White racist thought.  In an interview with the White, former student of a predominantly black high school, the stereotypes that encourage the oppression of people of color are made clear.  When joining his track team David said, “They just laughed at me when I went out for first string jumper beucase most of the stars were Black.  They said things like, ‘This whitey thinks he can out jump Lamonte!’” (Gay 2011).  Graves’ pillars of racist thought are brought into action here as the Black track stars jeered at White man because of the false notion that “races have genetically determined differences in athletic…ability” (2004).  And again in his high school career, David also noted that he “never saw a riot where White kids would gang up on a Black kid, it was always the opposite.  On top of that it was never about race, they made it about race.” (Gay 2011).  Remembering a fight between two Black girls at his school, David discusses his theory, “the girl’s blood splattered on my shirt, they were killing each other over a boy.  Nobody was going to do anything, so I cold clocked her in the head to end the fight.  When her friends showed up the first thing they said was ‘What makes you think you can hit a sista like that?’” (Gay 2011).  Passive racism is present in all of these memories; unfortunately events like this “permit Whites to speaks of ‘Black Racism’ as if it were exactly like White racism” (Hill 2008).  However, these themes of passive racism are also embodied in active racism.  After a long ride from Tucson, Arizona to Corn City, Texas in the 60s, Carmen Rangel’s bus driver informed her that the reason no one would sit next to her was because she was in the first section of the black row, and she looked White (despite her Latina background):

At the bus stop I went to get a drink from the fountain and a lady tapped me on the shoulder and said, “That’s the colored fountain” in a whispery sort of voice. So I looked at her and looked at the fountain and turned the water on both fountains and said, “Well it looks the same” and then I tasted it, “It tastes the same too.”  The lady stuck her nose in the air and huffed off and gave me a dirty look. I thought it was pretty dumb that people thought that and it made me feel pretty good that I was able to tell her that.  (Rangel 2011)

In this situation, a Latina woman’s pride for acts of antiracism shine through, and yet she is also oppressed.  Subtly, Carmen is a victim of cultural genocide as well.

            “Even a member of the stereotyped group may internalize the stereotypical categories about his or her own group to some degree” (Tatum 1997).  Upon the subject of her husband’s school, in Texas, physically punishing children for speaking Spanish, Rangel states “I think it’s important for them to learn English, so in the classroom I thought it was fine” (Rangel 2011).  More milk and yogurt gushes into the tan shake, language loss begins to take it’s toll with this generation of Chicanos.  Much like Native American boarding schools, “speaking any language other than English was strictly prohibited” (Keohane 1870).  Signs that illustrated White as American, normal, individual and good filled Mr. Rangel’s elementary school, “Be A Good American, Speak English!” (Rangel 2011).  The underlying tone here is that anyone that does not speak English is not American, and therefore not White, which means couldn’t possibly be successful in this country because they lack the status of an individual.  From an entirely different standpoint, David illustrates how he felt discriminated against by “the whole institution.  At my vocational tech high school, all of the Black students got to go to the Office Skills Olympics, people that I could type circles around were getting all of these scholarships.  When I asked why I couldn’t go I was told, ‘It’s because you’re not Black.’” (Gay 2011).  A thought process like this “make it easy for them to dismiss complaints of people of color as ‘whining’ and ‘playing the race card’” (Hill 2008).  However, he fails to recognize the everyday ‘scholarships’ her receives just for being White.  After quite a bit of digging he did admit, “it seemed like everyone was treated badly, I just wasn’t treated worse” (Gay 2011).

Institutional racism’s role in cultural genocide is extremely crucial because of its absoluteness.  If America is able to produce youth, even youth of color, that believe these false statements are true, White racism has won, and with little chance of an effective resistance.  However, it is not just the education system that is spreading the sentiments of white privilege; the work force is also responsible for breeding racial disparities:

When potential bosses looked at me they thought ‘she looks white and she speaks Spanish,’ so I was a package. I thought it was beneficial.  I always wrote that I was Mexican on applications, and that I spoke fluent Spanish.  I never denied it, but it helped me get a job.  It depended where you were working though because if you were getting a job close to Mexico it would look better to look Mexican because they would feel associated to you; they would speak Spanish and know you spoke Spanish.  They would not have given me a job down there. But it helped where I was. (Rangel 2011)

Here Rangel was both given and denied opportunity solely because of her White exterior.  While her phenotype does play an important part in these hiring decisions, “the role of chance in determining racial identity is significantly smaller than one might expect,” as the importance of her context is far more relevant (Lopez 1998).  Her skin could have been any color, but the real deciding factor was where she was from because of where the people, who were considering her for the job, were from.  As Haney Lopez states, “races are groups of people bound together by historically contingent, socially significant elements of their morphology” (1998). 

            Similarly, these types of interactions occur on daily outings.  When going out to dinner with her husband, while it was traditional to ask the man first what he wanted in the fifties, waiters would ask Rangel first “because I looked white and not dark like him” (2011).  Also, Lantinos/as judged Rangel because she was a “huera”, or White one.  Walking up to a group of her husband’s Mexican friends, Rangel “spoke Spanish, then they were okay with me” (2011).  In choosing to speak her mother tongue, Carmen Rangel chose to be Mexican at the same time, much like Piri Thomas’ father who made his Puerto Rican accent more distinct because it “turned a cold rejection into an indifferent acceptance” (Lopez 1998).  This was not the only instance where Rangel had a chance to “pass” (Lopez 1998); in a department store in Fortworth, Texas, she and a friend experienced the same sort of prejudice:

These two Mexican girls were in front of us at the store and they started speaking in Spanish about us.  They thought we were white, and we listened.  When they were about to leave, we started to speak in Spanish and their faces turned all sorts of colors and their mouths fell open all surprised!  They were talking about our clothes and hair, like we’d never know they were talking about us! (Rangel 2011)

“Although it may have been difficult for some Latinos to ‘pass’ as white due to their phenotype, surname, or language skills,” Carmen could (Johnson 1998).

            Once people become Americans they inadvertently become tools that help bring about cultural genocide.  People of color are not exempt from furthering White racist thought either. Whether the two Mexican women in Texas knew it or not, they were perpetuating the racial stereotypes that surround people of color and spreading racial hatred.  Further from the South, “in the middle of the Midwest,” the two Black women that had almost killed each other were doing the same thing, giving White people reason to think they should be supervised and civilized (Gay 2011).  White people are without racial stereotypes because they have created them, and now people assume “there’s too many different types of them.  You can’t just throw them into one circle” (Gay 2011).  This statement assumes that there are not very many different types of people of color and that they do fit in a small number of stereotypes.  Clearly, what these people of color need is another scoop of White because it is, after all, the basis of normality, morality, and prosperity.  Thus people of color begin to hack off their own extremities in an effort to become more of what their internal oppression told them is good; they are the brain-washed drones of their own extermination.

Works Cited

Gay, David. 2011. Race Interview.

Graves, Joseph L, Jr. 2004. Why We Pretend Race Exists in America, in The Race Myth. NY Dutton. ix-xvi.

Haney López, Ian F. 1998. Chance, Context, and Choice in the Social Construction of Race, in The Latino/a Condition: A Critical Reader, ed. by Richard Delgado and Jean Stefancic. New York: New York University Press. 9-16.

Hill, Jane H. 2008. The Persistence of White Racism. in The Everyday Language of White Racism. Chichester, U.K.: Wiley-Blackwell. 1-13.

Johnson, Kevin R. 1998. Melting Pot or Ring of Fire?, in The Latino/a Condition: A Critical Reader, ed. By Richard Delgado and Jean Stefancic. New York: New York University Press. 427-430.

Keohane, Sonja. 1870-1928. The Reservation Boarding School in The United States

Rangel, Carmen. 2011. Race Interview.

Tatum, Beverly Daniel. 1997. Defining Racism: “Can We Talk?,” in “Why are all the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria?” and Other Conversations about Race. New York: Basic Books. 3-17.

If someone asked me to explain how a microwave heats up food, my best correct answer would be, “it just does.” All over the world today, the same goes for race.  It’s as real as a microwave, tangible with visible results, but ask almost anyone how it works and their guess would be as good as me trying to exploit the inner-workings of a microwave.  Race is not biological, despite the best efforts to prove it so.  It is an idea that is hard to swallow because the immediate assumption after hearing this is, race doesn’t exist? Lewis Elliot explains this by comparing race to borders between states; there are no visible lines of separation, but when you cross a state line you still wait to pay a toll (2006).  Race is an ever-changing societal label placed on people based on their time, place, and appearance.  While there are no scientific ties to race, the impact it has on society and especially people of color is as undeniable as your food being hot when it comes out of the microwave; it’s real.

CONFESSION:  I am racially prejudice…

             Life as a Mexican-American has progressed without any real racial turmoil for me, or so I thought.  I attended a private Catholic school, Our Mother of Sorrows, for ten years.  Here and at home, I was taught never to treat anyone differently simply because of their exterior appearance.  And yet, who was everyone?  At OMOS everyone consisted of wealthy White and Mexican students, at home everyone is my White and Mexican family “where we had limited opportunities to interact with people different from our own families” (Tatum 1997). 

The peak of my childhood racial diversity could be claimed widely by Disney movies, stereotyping light colors and angular facial features as heroes, dark colors and large facial features as bad guys.  Regardless of how many times I had been told not to judge a book by its cover, I had already developed my prejudices by the means of White racist culture, but I am simply an innocent victim of White isolation, unable to escape the sorts of stereotypes fed to every White American (Hill 2008). 

The first time I had ever come into contact with active racism that I could identify was because of my grandfather, Vincente Rudolpho Rangel (emphasis on the Hispanic pronunciation, please).  Everyday after school, I would go over to my grandparents’ house and watch television or do homework.  When I was about ten years old, and in fourth grade, I was really starting to get into the lame, teen soap operas on Nickelodeon (it was not cool to like Disney anymore, since I was so old); one of my favorite shows was Moesha, a predominantly black sitcom.

I was sitting in the old, over-sized recliner and laughing at the awful puns provided by the show, when my grandfather walked into the living room. “Hey,” he laughed out, “how do you tell the difference?” 

I was only ten-years-old, so this confused me.  I literally had no clue what he was referring to.  “What do you mean?”

He pointed at the screen and smiled, “They all look the same to me!”

When I did not laugh at the joke, which he had thought was so hilarious, I think he actually tried to explain it.  But my grandfather is a man of few serious words and lots of bad jokes, from knock-knocks to racist cracks at the drop of a coin.  Later, I talked to my mom about it, because even as a kid I understood that what he said was wrong.  To this day, she says he was joking harmlessly, that he did not mean it.  And now, I look back and think, Have you forgotten where you come from?  Last time, I checked, we were a minority too.

But the truth is, we have all forgotten.  It seems that through every generation, we lose a little of the Chicano and gain some American in exchange.  I speak English; I listen to rock music; my favorite television show is Modern Family; I hate soccer; Mariachi’s annoy me; if I were dumped in Mexico I would probably die trying to understand directions to water.  These choices label me White.  Luckily for me, because of the time and place we are in, I can pass easily.  Unfortunately every other colored person, has to live with the anxiety and consequences behind “driving while black” or “ordering a restaurant meal while Indian” (Hill 2008).

At the beginning of this class, Race, Ethnicity, & The American Dream, I was unable to pin point the reason behind my guilt.  I’m Mexican; I’m darker than every White person I know.  How could I possibly feel guilty of racism?  The answer, ironically, does not lie within the pigmentation of my skin, but rather the context in which I grew up and the choice I may have unconsciously made to be White (López 1998).

Works Cited

Haney López, Ian F. 1998. Chance, Context, and Choice in the Social Construction of Race, in The Latino/a Condition: A Critical Reader, ed. by Richard Delgado and Jean Stefancic. New York: New York University Press. 9-16.

Hill, Jane H. 2008. The Persistence of White Racism. in The Everyday Language of White Racism. Chichester, U.K.: Wiley-Blackwell. 1-13.

Lewis, Elliot. 2006. The Science and Folly of Race. in In Fade: My Journeys in Multiracial America. New York: Carroll & Graf. 43-52.

Tatum, Beverly Daniel. 1997. Defining Racism: “Can We Talk?,” in “Why are all the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria?” and Other Conversations about Race. New York: Basic Books. 3-17.

In spite of being united by one language, culture and belief, I’ve often heard people belonging to the same ethnic group make distinctions amongst themselves using their geographical origin and clans. They will describe how regional dialects differ from each other, and outline the varying characteristics of the women and men from this village and that valley. They will find that little something that sets them apart from the larger group. It is no wonder therefore, that Kenyans still feel the need to make distinction upon distinction about their belonging. Some call it tribe. Others call it ethnic group.

Tribe is an ethnocentric term that typically refers to a primitive, homogeneous, static, isolated group of people. Ethnicity on the other hand, refers to aspects of relationships between groups, which consider themselves, and are regarded by others as being culturally distinctive (Eriksen, 1993). Anthropologists view ethnicity as a coping mechanism to social and political circumstances and a way of getting through the challenges we face in life. So, although the two terms are used interchangeably in the Kenyan context, a more accurate description of this social phenomenon would be ‘ethnic group’, being dynamic culturally distinctive groups of people, not existing alone, but with relations to other groups.

We are social animals, who in this country as in many others, cleave to our ethnic groups, whether we’re in constant contact with other group members or not. Seeking a sense of identity and belonging, and being proud of the distinctive characteristics that make a positive and valuable contribution to the larger group, which we call nation, can never be wrong. Having been lumped together by historical events that we had no control over, Kenya is a plural society that has to acknowledge differences and respect them. This would in fact make it easier for us to become as loyal to the state as we are to our ethnic groups. Only then will we strive to bring the best that our diversity has to offer to the table for the benefit of the nation. Under the still prevailing conditions of inequity, injustice, marginalization and polarization, this may sound like a Herculean task. But every journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.

It is appalling and disgusting to know that antisemitism has once again reared its ugly head, in the person of no other than a black woman, publicly and unabashedly. She stated that Jews who run  banks should be run out of the country. Does she realize that her ethnicity and race had once been a “plague” in the United States, and has she fogotten that Jews supported black causes?  It is one thing to be brainwashed and another thing to reveal her true character without any hesitation. I am sure she does not represent the civil affairs of blacks in general, nor, in my opinion, merited the concurrence of her counterparts who are enlightened and well-informed.

I take the liberty of emphasizing as follows: l) She should not forget that she belongs to a race that had once suffered the abuses of racism and bigotry; 2)  that Christianity is inherently Zionist since it is considered to be an offshoot of Judaism; 3)  that Christ was himself Jewish and a native of Zion (Israel) ) and that the New Testament is but an extension of the Old Testament; 4) that scapegoating had once been “the plague of Europe, represented by Hitler; 5) that Wall Street is not run by Zionists; 6) that the state of our economy is not caused by Jews. 7) that Jews are part of the fabric of the American way of life, no less than blacks; last but not least, Jews have undeniably contributed to many beneficial aspects of life in the United States.

Scapegoating is an epidemic that spread all around the Continent of Europe by ignorant folks.  Hopefully, the infection has not yet consumed this woman in its entirety. 

     That got me thinking that, OMG, everyone on Earth is prejudiced. The mere fact that we feel and express like and dislike of some things and people over others makes us de facto prejudiced.

     I know that I am prejudiced against a lot of things:

                                                . Chicken and turkey_ I hate poultry.

                                                . Expensive produce rotting on the store shelves.

                                                . Cars whose price equals the down payment on a home and are ready for

                                                   the bone-yard before they are paid-off.

     And I could go on and you could add to the list without thinking too hard.

     I am also prejudiced against some types of people:

                                                 . Rude people

                                                 . Liars

                                                 . Bullies

                                                 . Criminals

                                                 . Ambulance Chasers

                                                 . Politicians(see second bullet)

     And, again, I could go on and you could include countless more.

     My only “hang-up” about people is with race…ethnicity. It arouses my curiosity. Where they came from.  Their language. Their customs and traditions. Their history. And so on…

     Being that I work with many people from other lands, I find myself learning a lot from all of them. Among many things, I learn that their basic needs, wants, likes and dislikes are very similar to my own. And that is what makes them “my people”. We hear a lot about promoting diversity. Diversity is not something that you create, grow, promote and what have you. It simply exists. It is a fact of life. All we need to do is welcome it and learn from it. Let us keep in mind that our Creator had a purpose in mind for all creation.

     As an aside, I was once told that W.C. Field, when asked by a reporter wether he was prejudiced, responded with two short sentences: ” I am not prejudiced. I hate everyone equally…” …hmmm…

     Oh well, we all have our own cross to bear. I can only add: “Viva la diversitee”…