Personal Narrative: My Racial Identity

The race I identify with is white. While for some people it is difficult to decide, I don’t have trouble determining that. My mom’s side is almost all Polish and Yugoslavic, and my dad’s side is a mixture of several European countries. I have lived

I consider myself multiracial. I come from a Hispanic culture but after living in Miami for so many years, and being surrounded by such a cultural landscape I have also adopted into the American culture. I am also white.

Probably not many, in fact I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone ask what ethnicity someone is. The reason for this may be that not many people know the difference. Race is based off the way that someone looks. Most people describe peoples race by the color of their skin, even though sometimes that can be a little confusing. Ethnicity is more of where they originated, so the countries and cultures that they associate themselves with.

All throughout time people have been “the other.” Pratt refers to the other as being “Someone who is perceived by the dominant culture as not belonging, as they have been

I am a spoiled rich kid. I live in an upper middle class town located in one of the prosperous countries in the world. I attend to a competitive school with qualified teachers who care about their students. I have seemingly endless opportunity to participate in my community or gain experience in a job. I have fair skin, living in a world where is being Caucasian is advantageous.

It all began in the year 1955. This was the year that so many great things shook the foundation of America that will never be forgotten for years and years to come. My name is Joyce Norman I was a military brat that was born and raised in the small town of Fayetteville, North Carolina along with one brother and four sisters. To show a little humor, this is another place like Texas that has bipolar weather from sunny skies with a hint of rain to a giant blizzard that’ll give you a death of pneumonia. Throughout, the years of my life as an African American we heard songs of change, we were insured and inspired in church that change would come some way or another either in the community or in our nation. As the world continued to change I

I am an African American. You must be wondering what’s my name since im “black”, you might be thinking that its ghetto, right? No need to know where I came from, you must think that I come from the projects right? It’s not like it’s important to you. You probably think that my future plans are that I won’t finished high school and that I will become pregnant. One look at the color of my skin is all it takes. Right? Look again.

Many people forget or do not realize that race is a social construct used to obtain superiority over others of different skin pigmentation. Race is defined as “a group whose inherited psychical characteristics distinguish it from another group” (Henslin, 2015, p. 263). Although the construct of race may be different in one culture to another, the idea of race is still one that has been conceived by society. There is no biological evidence that race is part of a biological makeup. Ethnicity has to do more with how someone identifies culturally, and can identify with multiple groups no matter their “racial identity.” As ethnicity is defined as “having distinctive cultural characteristics” (Henslin, 2015, p. 266). However, even though race is

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.

Life for me hasn’t been the easiest. I am a black woman who has to support her kid. No one ever treats me fairly. My job can barely put food on the table for my handsome 4 year old son who’s name is Grayson. My house is torn up and beat down. My floor is bare with no carpet, my room plain with no bed. My son’s life is half broken by having a white father and a black mother. My deceased husband died trying to save me two months ago when two rich white men came to my house and tried to kill us. I can’t say his name anymore. Saying his name is a just a constant reminder that life for a colored woman is not as clear or perfect as a crystal staircase.

I have been taken by rival a tribe from my homeland and since sold to outsider white men. I have done no wrongs in my lifetime. I have served an honest life doing my upmost to provide for my family and tribe. Now, I find myself restrained in this horrific place. I am laying in not only my own feces, but the feces of nearly 100 others. I am restrained to the floor of this boat with many others that look very similar to me, yet I cannot understand them. The man to my left will not stop sobbing and speaking in what sounds like gibberish to me. Every so often he gets so enthusiastic with his sorrows that one of the white men comes down and beats him within an inch of his life, he too yelling in a language I do not

I do not particularly like when people use this phrase so lightly and to refer to something that is presumably in style. I have not used it myself, even when growing up when it used to be “acceptable”. I personally have a cousin that it’s a few years older than me and due to the era and country we grew up, the resources, for the children and the parents as well, were not available. Her disability was extremely severe strike and my aunt had to put her in an institution, even when she didn’t want to. I did hear other people using the term and it did stroke a chord every time someone would say it – even to this day.

Starting on my mother’s side of the family, I will start with her mother background. My great grandmother, was black, and as far as we know he parents were black as well. However, my great-great grandmother, the mother of my great grandfather was Panamanian and my great-great grandfathers, the father of my great grandfather had a Panamanian mom and a Spanish Indian and Jamaican father. My great grandfather however called himself a British subject, he was born in Panama however lived in the British west indies. My great grandfather followed his aunt to Boston because allegedly his mother died giving birth to a younger sibling and his father remarried and the step mother and my great grandfather were unable to get along. Therefore, my grandmother would be considered

I cannot be placed neatly into any racial category without debate. People around me have no issue telling me how I should racially identify. Some would suggest Middle Eastern as my race even though the area is separated from Pakistan by hundreds of miles. My mom nudges me and says, "Choose ‘Other’. Pakistanis

By what people typically think and classify others as, I would be seen as white. Obviously, this is my racial identity and not my ethnicity. If someone was to ask me what my ethnicity is, I could not give a simple answer. Through generations, my ethnicity is rooted in several different cultures, specifically Irish, Scottish, English, German, and Jewish. Out of the five, I most strongly identify with my German heritage. Without asking me, though, some people would never know from which countries my ancestors came to the United States.