What is she?
By Brandi Coley
I was attending Fletcher Elementary, Ms. Long’s third grade class with tiny blue plastic chairs to be exact, when I read a biography about Rosa Parks. The biography introduced different elements of black history, but at that age I did not really know or understand much about the Civil Rights Movement. The only thing that stuck with me was that we shared the same birthday; February 4th. When black history month rolled around I wrote a short blurb about Rosa Parks’ act of courage on December 1st, 1955. Little did I know why she did it or the effect it had on black people in America.
My father tried to make me understand the importance of the history of black people when I was young. He would tell me that as a young woman growing up in America, especially a part black young woman, it was essential for me to understand what happened in the past that got black people in America where they are today. Every February my family and I gather around the television in the living room to watch showcases about the Civil Rights Movement, slavery, or both on HBO and BET.
When I was young the shows were not to my taste and often bored me, but I will never forget the testimony of a former black slave. A dramatization showed her running towards a forest, vicious hounds trailing her. The hounds caught her, mauled and tore off her breast, and then slave owners dragged her away. One month every year is dedicated to recognizing black history month and I am there for every 28 days.
Frederick Douglas, John Brown, John F. Kennedy, Linda Brown, Harriet Tubman, Malcolm X, and Rosa Parks all fought for numerous elements of the Civil Rights Movement. Whether the fight was for the Abolition of Slavery in 1833, the Equal Payment act in 1963, the Civil Rights act of 1964, the Equal Employment act of 1972, or the Equal Education act of 1974, they all had one common goal: Equal Rights and the end of Discrimination for black people in America.
Every day I encounter people defiling what civil rights activists have worked so hard accomplish. I try to tell them what they do is wrong and why it’s wrong- but they don’t care enough to take the time to understand. On rare occurrences, people do listen and I see a genuine change in that person and how they carry themselves. The others simply carry on their lives day to day with the same smug look on their faces, but I know that I just can’t give up on them now.
These others look at me with questioning eyes; What is she? They make assumptions and try to guess my race but become baffled by my tan, yet not dark enough to be ‘black’, skin. They make stereotypical judgments about me before they meet me and after they get to know me, wonder why I’m not the loud ghetto black girl they thought I would be. Once they find out I am part Asian that opens a whole new door for racial slurs and jokes. They find it funny, but I find it ignorant. Don’t they remember that everyone is created equal? People who make jokes like that either do not know the hardships their ancestors endured or do not care about the hard work and many years that went into it. My father did not want me to grow up to become one of them.
By Brandi Coley
I was attending Fletcher Elementary, Ms. Long’s third grade class with tiny blue plastic chairs to be exact, when I read a biography about Rosa Parks. The biography introduced different elements of black history, but at that age I did not really know or understand much about the Civil Rights Movement. The only thing that stuck with me was that we shared the same birthday; February 4th. When black history month rolled around I wrote a short blurb about Rosa Parks’ act of courage on December 1st, 1955. Little did I know why she did it or the effect it had on black people in America.
My father tried to make me understand the importance of the history of black people when I was young. He would tell me that as a young woman growing up in America, especially a part black young woman, it was essential for me to understand what happened in the past that got black people in America where they are today. Every February my family and I gather around the television in the living room to watch showcases about the Civil Rights Movement, slavery, or both on HBO and BET.
When I was young the shows were not to my taste and often bored me, but I will never forget the testimony of a former black slave. A dramatization showed her running towards a forest, vicious hounds trailing her. The hounds caught her, mauled and tore off her breast, and then slave owners dragged her away. One month every year is dedicated to recognizing black history month and I am there for every 28 days.
Frederick Douglas, John Brown, John F. Kennedy, Linda Brown, Harriet Tubman, Malcolm X, and Rosa Parks all fought for numerous elements of the Civil Rights Movement. Whether the fight was for the Abolition of Slavery in 1833, the Equal Payment act in 1963, the Civil Rights act of 1964, the Equal Employment act of 1972, or the Equal Education act of 1974, they all had one common goal: Equal Rights and the end of Discrimination for black people in America.
Every day I encounter people defiling what civil rights activists have worked so hard accomplish. I try to tell them what they do is wrong and why it’s wrong- but they don’t care enough to take the time to understand. On rare occurrences, people do listen and I see a genuine change in that person and how they carry themselves. The others simply carry on their lives day to day with the same smug look on their faces, but I know that I just can’t give up on them now.
These others look at me with questioning eyes; What is she? They make assumptions and try to guess my race but become baffled by my tan, yet not dark enough to be ‘black’, skin. They make stereotypical judgments about me before they meet me and after they get to know me, wonder why I’m not the loud ghetto black girl they thought I would be. Once they find out I am part Asian that opens a whole new door for racial slurs and jokes. They find it funny, but I find it ignorant. Don’t they remember that everyone is created equal? People who make jokes like that either do not know the hardships their ancestors endured or do not care about the hard work and many years that went into it. My father did not want me to grow up to become one of them.
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