Personal Narrative: My Understanding Of Race

My understanding of race has certainly changed over time. I spent first fourteen years of my life in a country that was predominantly white. I was not aware of racism simply because I did not encounter anyone who was not white. In fourteen years I saw one Black gentleman who was attending a Medical University in my town as an exchange student. My classmates and I saw him as someone exotic from the other side of the world. He was a matter of a conversation for about fifteen seconds before we went on about our daily lives.

When I moved to the states I was exposed to the “American Melting Pot,” so I thought, by moving into one of the whites towns Bay Area had to offer. My English Second Language class had about eight people, five Mexican Kids, one

I could not name it then, but I can now. I felt as if she gave up a portion of her white privilege to be with him, and made her life more difficult. I never felt that way dating outside of my race, but I was young and unaware. I hear from her about incidents of racism against her family. Like being pulled over with her boyfriend by a white CHP officer and being told “You’re lucky you have that baby in a car…” Or being told by a Russian woman in the store when she sees my sisters kids, “Oh, I see how it is…” rolling her eyes, turning away and ceasing the conversation, and countless other microagressions that she faces daily. This is what it was, my bittersweet compassion, my ache of awareness, and my understanding of race. White race caries an enormous power to hurt effortlessly, and a little power to heal through an immense amount of work. I am white, and I do feel privileged to be white. Privileged and sad. Perhaps, my sister is brave and she did not give up her privilege but shared it, and, in a small way, leveled the playing field. Everyday she empowers three other human beings in her household, and a few more outside of