Combating Racism – Lived Experiences

Racism is the belief that collections of individuals possess various behavioral features in addition to physical appearance and could be divided based on the Highness of one race over another. It may additionally mean intolerance, discrimination, or hostility directed against others in order to they are of various race or ethnicity. New variants of racism are usually based on social awareness of biological differences between peoples.

A modern racist crimes :

The horrible murder of George Floyd yet haunts me. I didn’t watch the videos. I just can’t. It was further than enough to see a news bulletin including a still picture of a white police officer, with his hand casually in his pocket, nonchalantly killing in front of the cameras, notwithstanding requests from the crowd to stop. He didn’t care that he was causing suffering and appeared to be assured of his right to oppress another in such a cruel and inhuman fashion. This story, despite chilling, is not new.

My co-worker colleague, a good and kind white woman who said the lived experiences of racism, as told by people from the African and Asian diaspora in the UK, but I don’t need to believe that these matters are true and that we live in a society that treats people in such inhumane ways.

Proud to be different :

One day, while I was driving house with my sisters-in-law, we saw a black woman was pulled over and made fun of her. My husband looked at his sister in the eye and asked “are you a racist?” Why would you tell that?” She answered that she rejects all people of color. And it’s her right to be racist.

I do not forget my husband shouting at her. I remember feeling my body shaking as I understand his family rejected me. And he was saying that if she ever talked like that in the future I would not give her the chance again. But most of all I remember feeling sick. My whole life people thought I was white but I was not. I’d been living a trick. And now my in-laws knew I wasn’t white. I knew they would not like me now. It’s troubling, to tell the least. Now at family gatherings, I cannot help but feel anxious. I know nobody will forget that day in the car—the day they understood I wasn’t one of them.

But now … I’m proud. I’m pleased to be Mexican. Sometimes I’m grateful for that night. I’m grateful because it allowed me to come out and be proud of whom I am careless of what some might think.

racism in families :

My mother owns four children—one of them is white and three brown. Toward my white grandmother, we were niggers. I, in special, was a chubby nigger—an offense, I discovered, which greatly increased my already punishable-by-shunning crime of being born black. It was, subsequent all, one mater to let a little nigger girl into your house to sit in quietness as you went about the business of teaching your actual granddaughter how to be a woman. It was another matter completely to watch as that small nigger girl ate you out of the house and home and then had the gall to cry to her mother about “special treatment” and “unfairness” without even worrying to wipe the crumbs—your crumbs—from her tight black mouth. Indeed, intemperance and blackness, for my grandmother, became an attached (and unjustifiable) pair.

My grandfather, on the other hand, was especially tolerant and rejected my experience with my grandmother as much as he can. However, when they both ultimately passed and my mother inherited their house—the house whose several white rooms had been off-limits throughout my childhood—it was with pride rather than the shame that my father, siblings, and I sank our black feet into the plush white carpets beyond the front room and reclined on the once-banned white sofa to watch movies together for the first time.