Examples Of Racial Autobiography

When I was young I didn’t really realize the impact of being African-American until high school. I went to a predominately white school for elementary and middle school. I was just like any other youth. I had my group of friends who were white; I was active in school activities and clubs. I was a student athlete and I got along well with my teachers. Everyone saw me as an upbeat person with a bubbly personality. Surprisingly, race was never brought up it wasn’t an issue for me during that period of my life. However, as I got older I realize there was a difference. As an adult I could really see the prejudice in others. I recall working a on a special project for the

My racial identity shaped who I was when I lived in Iowa. My sister and I were the only black children within a 50 mile radius. It did not help that we lived in poor conditions. That only solidified the stereotypes that were tied to me as a black person. I was called “n****r” girl and looked at weird. The teachers gave me looks of pity. I felt alone. My mother was in her own world of picking up the pieces of our broken life that landed us in that foreign town to begin with. I was seen as a charity case. People wanted to house me, befriend me, and aid me because it would be doing society a service. My mother’s friend who I lived with for 2 months treated my sister and I as though we were her personal babysitters, her tax write-offs. She talked about possibly making us her foster children. Not because she wanted a good home for us, but because she could get paid to do it. I was seen as property. She came from a background of prejudice and the insensitive Aunt Jemima figurines and racial remarks only solidified her intentions. Even though she would say, “I can’t be racist. I’m taking care of two black kids”, her actions were driven by race. These instances of

When I entered the Dynamic of Racism and Oppression class I was the individual who had blinders on. I did not have a full understanding of what racism was, which in itself is shocking to me as I thought I had. What made me really stop and think was this class opened my eyes to the fact that I did not know my own identity. I have heard individual say “I’m black”, “I am of African decent”, “I’m Latino”, “I’m Canadian”, and “I’m white”. These are common statements of how individuals view their race and identity. I have even placed my identity in one of those categories, I’m white. I was unaware and unsure of what it meant to have a culture, which many individuals claim everyday. Some individuals know their identity, others do not, I was one

Later as I grew a little older I began to start to identify with my other ethnicities. During 4th to 6th grade I was going through the enmeshment/denial stage. This stage is when an individual will usually feel bad about choosing one ethnicity over another. I was feeling ambiguous about only identifying myself as white and not Native American, Spanish, French, Dutch, or Bohemian. Later during Middle School, I noticed that when asked about “what am I?”, referring to my ethnicity I would begin to list out what I associate myself with more so, as well I remember visiting cultural events to learn more about my heritage,

Slavery was abolished after the Civil War, but the Negro race still was not accepted as equals into American society. To attain a better understanding of the events and struggles faced during this period, one must take a look at its' literature. James Weldon Johnson does an excellent job of vividly depicting an accurate portrait of the adversities faced before the Civil Rights Movement by the black community in his novel “The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man.” One does not only read this book, but instead one takes a journey alongside a burdened mulatto man as he struggles to claim one race as his own.

Growing up I believed that being Hispanic meant being a particular shade of brown that had to be just right. I had no concept of colorism during my childhood and adolescents and had a meager understanding of racism and how it looked like to be discriminated against. Furthermore, less of understanding was diluted even further by my struggle with accepting my romantic and sexual orientation. The nuance of those identities and my many others left me exploring those intersections within myself than exploring the greater picture of social discourse. This all ignoring my lack access to information only found in higher education. Once I had access to this information and meet others that were like me and different than me, I starting learning that what it means to be Hispanic is vastly different than what I thought.

Entering the white privileged school the students gave me the first impression. They had huge potty mouths and no respect for others. They were the ones who taught me my first cuss words and taught me how to give others “the bird”. As well as the teachers, they had work ethic… sorta. I remember how my teacher was reading to our class and one of the characters in the book was named “Mrs. Hussy” and another teacher misheard her. Everyone in class laughed but me. I didn’t understand like they did. I learned new things everyday because of these people. Going through all this, I held onto my culture. Why my culture you may ask? Well it’s because within my culture respect is the most important thing. I dealt with all the hooligans in a respectful manner. I had to represent my family in a way to where it shows that my parents have and are currently raising me

For years, I struggled in an education system that only served to teach students of crime, where day by day, I would roam my high school hallways in search of peace, which I could only find in a few of my class rooms. I visited many schools during high school through a variety of programs that I was part of and through this I got to interact with students of more privileged high schools in New York City, where the Caucasian population was

At the beginning of my freshman year, I joined the future educators’ club. I wanted to be a teacher, and after hearing about a full-ride scholarship to St. Francis that was being offered to members, I signed up. Although I was the youngest person in the club, and there were only about five of us, I continued attending. A few meetings passed, and I asked about the opportunity. This moment exposed me to the other side of the racial spectrum. Unfortunately, I was told that I was ineligible for the scholarship because I was Caucasian. In order to qualify, I had to be a minority. I suddenly realized that although there is a vast amount of racial injustice, there are also opportunities for minorities that are not offered to whites. Even though I might earn the same grades as someone of a different ethnicity, I was not given the chance to participate. In my mind, that doesn’t

To start off, both of my parents are white Americans. My father’s great grandparents came to america from czechoslovakia in the late 1800’s and same for my mothers German great grandparents. Born and raised in primarily white small towns, my parents are your stereotypical middle class white americans. About 10 years into their relationship when my mom first got pregnant with my oldest brother Dalton (23), they bought a 3 story house that was right outside of a suburban neighborhood on the outskirts of Anoka, Mn. The nearest gas station was about a 8 minute drive, and the nearest restaurant was 10. They had 3 boys together, and took in my oldest cousin Chey when she was 10 because my aunt had passed.

Every person identity with their known heritage. For myself, I identity myself as African American or black because that is what I have been told for a young age I should identity with. I am envious of everyone who can trace their heritage back and proudly pronounce their ethnic group instead of using a generic term for their racial group. For example, my supervisor is Spanish and German but raised in France. The scenic designer is Portuguese and English. Lastly, an assistant stage manager is British but was raised in American.

My educational career started from an urban charter school that specifically targeted students of East African descent like me. Most of the students looked like me, talked like me, came from the same home background as me. And it’s where I met and made most of my lifelong friends. I don’t remember talking very much in school, in hindsight I guess that is why my participation grade was always so low. But I was a “good” student if good meant not getting into trouble, not talking when the teacher was talking, following directions without complaint. Then I was a good student. And because I always turned my homework on time and didn’t get into trouble that equated me to goody two shoes status and teachers pet with my peer.

Too black for the White kids, yet somehow too white for the Black kids, oh the perils of a cappuccino mixed race kid. But it’s true. My life since I was young, at least younger than my eighteen year old self, has been about which group do I most fit in with. Between the four school changes over the course of twelve years, all in white suburban towns I’ve molded myself into an array of characters.

The narrator of The Autobiography grows up his whole life thinking that he is white. It is not until one fateful day in school where a teacher indirectly tells him that he is black that he finds out. This revelation, which he himself describes as “a sword-thrust” (Johnson 13), suggests a transformation, a great change, a development in the Ex-Colored Man’s racial consciousness in the future. However, as M. Giulia Fabi says, “[The ECM’s] proclaimed loyalty to his ‘mother’s people’ is continuously undercut by his admiration for and identification with mainstream white America” (375). She also indicates how when contrasted with previous passers, “the Ex-Colored Man’s oft-noted cowardice,

Born in California and raised in the deep south, I grew up in two conflicting societies. The cultural geography of both areas differs on a magnitude of levels and complicated my development into the cultures around me, however in retrospect influenced me to be a multidimensional and considerate person. At a young age my parents introduced me to progressive values. During the developmental toddler stages, I immersed myself in two different cultures: what I experienced at school and what I experienced at home. Charleston, South Carolina embodies small-town society though the Greater Charleston Area expands rapidly each year, pulling migrants, including my family, to the growing city. The overwhelmingly conservative views of Traditional Charleston