Every day in 1927, my grandfather threw the burrito his mother made for him for lunch over the bridge while on his way to school. He spoke fondly of his family, and every year for the 4th of July, we’d return to his hometown and break piñatas with wooden bats.
On Christmas, we’d eat tamales. But I never learned Spanish—or perhaps I was never taught it. When I went to school and told the other Mexican children I was a quarter Mexican, they’d take one look at my white, freckled face and say, “No, you’re not!” I’d retort, but their response was always, “Do you speak Spanish?” and that’s when I’d lose the argument.
My Italian father grew up in Compton, California at the peak of the civil rights movement. He remembers the feeling of being hungry; he says it felt like a punishment. He remembers being one of the few white kids at school and getting harassed by black peers because of his skin color.
My identity is complicated. My Mexican grandfather is rich, but he had to deny his native language to succeed. I do not have brown skin or speak Spanish, but I am Mexican, and I have always fought to be recognized as such—to belong.
I grew up in a predominantly white neighborhood, but every white girl I made friends with would abruptly “break off” our friendship to hang out with the “cool” kids. Looking back, I wonder if it was because I couldn’t afford to be “cool.” My brother regularly got jumped by white gang members called “bros.” In middle school, after continuing to be rejected by my Mexican peers, I was accepted into a group of predominantly Asian (Vietnamese, Cambodian and Filipino) kids. They gave me the title of “honorary Asian,” as I was the only white person in the group. I lie on the border between two races, but I was claimed by a racial group that did not reflect any part of my identity.
At Bowdoin, I sometimes silence myself to let students of color speak. I know that racism hurts me deeply, but because of my skin color, I never face discrimination directly from strangers. I am therefore neither white nor Mexican, yet I am both at the same time—my identity changes based on the situation. When racist comments are spoken in my presence, I usually leave out the fact that I am Mexican. I am a fly on the wall, one that catches violent, candid and ignorant comments of offenders. Participating in conversations about race is easier for me because I appear as if I belong to the privileged group and therefore the offender is less defensive toward my comments. Choosing to hide my identity is a privilege, and I sacrifice revealing my Mexican identity in order to continue the conversation.
Racist comments do not always come from white people, racist sentiments are embedded in minorities as well. A black friend of mine once said, “If you need any advice on talking about race, I have a lot of experience.” He proceeded, using a stereotypical Asian accent, “I have many weapons up my sleeves.” I responded, “You realize you just said that in a stereotypical Asian accent right?” He immediately went on the defense.
Racism can also move within and between minority groups. A Mexican can be racist against other Mexicans; like my grandfather who had English “pounded into him” by nuns and missionaries. He was taught by white people growing up that his culture was less valuable to society; therefore, he abandoned his language and his accent. My black friend used a stereotypical Asian accent created by the dominant group. This accent is used to mock Asians for not speaking “proper” English and for not assimilating to American cultural norms of speaking. Norms are created by the white majority, but minority groups can also use these norms to oppress each other.
Racism is a complicated thing. It is insidious and pervasive. It is not a dichotomy between black and white, but a web of complexity. It moves between dominant and oppressed groups, within minority groups and within ourselves (for me this is between my white and Mexican sides).
Let me be clear, however, that minority groups cannot be racist against dominant racial groups.
Black people, like the ones who beat up my father, for example, can have prejudices. But, prejudice is not the same as racism because our system of racial hierarchy does not give black people the power to oppress white people. This hierarchical system always favors white people over black people. Was it wrong to beat him up for being white? Yes. Did he necessarily deserve it? No. But, were his black peers justified in their systemically embedded fear of a white man? Yes.
On the other hand, when white people, who are privileged in our society, continue to commit violence toward black people—in a word, oppression—that is a systemic assertion of dominance and power. That is racism.
I encourage you all to admit to yourself that you are racist, that we all have embedded in us a racial hierarchy that values white people over black people. No matter what your race is, we are ALL guilty of being racist at some point in our lives. I will be the first to admit it. But, it is important to come to terms with your self-perception and how that fits within America’s racial system. This realization can humble us all and make it easier for us to talk about race. For those of you who are not familiar with phrases such as racism, white privilege, white guilt, or norms, I encourage you to look these terms up. Educate yourself—don’t just take my word for it.
Violet Ranson is a member of the class of 2016.