Life Lesson

My immediate response to this was “absolutely nothing,” but I as I thought about it I remembered I did learn about the something valuable, something I have never forgotten and remains true today, sadly.

Growing up I lived on the “right side of the tracks,” meaning the other side was the black area of town. And yes, literally there were tracks that divided the town. I attended a private high school because the public one was full of the black kids. One day, I came home from my private school and announced that I no longer wanted to attend a private school and that the following year I was put in the public school. My private school was a catholic school, I think I had had enough of the nuns telling me how bad of a sinner I was and making us kneel on concrete to pray for forgiveness when we misbehaved in class. I can’t recall if there was much argument about this, but I suspect not as this would save money yearly. So the following year, my junior year of high school, I started attending the local public school.

With the switch came shock. Everything from facilities to my freedom had changed. At first it was overwhelming, teachers absent, no sub, no class, everyday I prayed I had a teacher absent. Smoking was allowed outside the building and I could leave campus for lunch if I wanted. WOW! Amazing shit! Who knew?! The people changed too. As I said, the public school was full of black kids, so finding friends became an issue because I was new and I was white. Who was I to hang out with? Where did I fit in? Yes, you guessed it, with the twenty-five or so white kids of course. I quickly became friends with them.

One morning before first bell, I remember hanging out in the front of the building with the smokers, and getting asked, “So where are you from?” I remember looking at them perplexed. “What do you mean?, I from Westbright, like you.” “No, No, like where are your parents from, I’m Italian” said one person. Then another girl, who I eventually became friends with, Adrianna, said ” I’m Greek.” I looked at them and did not know how to answer that question. ” I’m white.” I said. again I got, “No, no, where are your parents from?” “Oh” I said, “Puerto Rico and the US.” Then just then, one kid shouted back “Oh, so your Spanish.” I guess, I replied. Clueless I was. We were a tight group, because we were the white group, we did not mix with the other kids and we all lived relatively close to each other and on the other side of the tracks.

Time went on and I started getting asked to hang out at their houses. The first time at Adrianna’s house, I remember getting the question again, “So where are you from?” Again I answered, “from Westbright.” Again,” No, where are your parents from?” “Oh.” I said again, and repeated the same information, “Puerto Rico and US.” And again I got, “Oh, so your are Spanish.” This time I replied, “I guess, but I don’t speak Spanish.” This pattern happened to each new friends house I entered. I was so perplexed, I remember going home and asking my mom where I am from and asking how to answer the question.

Race, nationality, identity was not a thing within my home. I don’t think we ever talked about that, I didn’t identity as anything, and if we had, this had not been communicated to me. We were just “white Americans,” so I thought. More and more, I started having similar exchanges in other homes and places I went. It seemed everywhere I went people wanted to know where I was from. Eventullay, with these conversations, I also started to pick up on the comments and remarks that were made about some of the other races or nationalities and how some were more favored over others and why. But I remained resistant, if people asked where I was from I would answer Westbright. Then the follow up question, would always come, what nationality are you?

I never liked to answer the question of nationality and til this day I try to avoid it. My usual response eventually became, “guess,” and I would receive all types of response from Spanish to Italian, to Egyptian. People would want me to clarify but I would only reply with, “I am American.”

Needless to say, this response drove people crazy. I found and still find people have a need to classify you, to box you and with this classification comes assumptions, bias, beliefs, that unfortunately creates a divide.

What I unfortunatly learned in high school, was my first taste of racisim and ever since then the concept is more prevelant than ever.