Write a page-long, singled-spaced reflection on your own experience of race – in reading our texts, and in other aspects of your life. Although this a "reflection," your essay should cohere around an argument or theme.

You should incorporate examples from your own experience and, equally importantly, from the works we are reading in class. This means that you should include direct quotations from the course's poems, stories, and essays and then interpret them - in their own contexts, and within your own context (your life, or your time, or the world).

 

A Good Time for the Truth: Race in Minnesota

Introduction

I am a racial minority, yet I have little idea which ethnicity I am. Since I was younger, I didn't even recognize if someone was racist. I guess I resisted acknowledging everything was occurring because I pretended it had to be a comedy. Racism, according to some, is no longer alive. Whenever I feel insulted, they think I'm becoming hyper-emotional. Once I encounter racial comments in person and online, people encourage me to relax. Through "puns" and innocuous words or ideas, I believe I've experienced more significant prejudice than I'd like to think. Discrimination is inevitable and maybe found wherever. I haven't had many powerful encounters with bigots, but the tiny actions sting the most—microaggressions from classmates, professors, and acquaintances.

Personal Experience

I was born and raised in Africa Monrovia, Liberia. Growing up, I didn't realize that race was a thing. Back home, we spoke English and fifteen other tribal languages that groups of people said, but English was their general language that everyone would speak and understand. When I came to the United States, my life changed for the worst, and my accent became a big problem. I was picked on, bullied, and made fun of by my native accent. People couldn't understand my accent. Sometimes when I spoke, people quickly assumed English as my second language, which was hurtful as it is my first language. English had been the language I was comfortable with when conversing with the tribes back in Africa. In my home, back in Africa, I would've never thought that the way I spoke English would ever cause any hindrance in my life in the states.

In first grade, I recall remembering becoming aware of my ethnicity for the first time. One of my friends on the bus was arguing with this other youngster. It is a reference to an occurrence that happened over lunch. I should've just left it to my pal, but I could not resist myself as a curious kid. "What would you know?" the young kid exclaimed as I urged them to give up the brawl. "You're just a gullible black kid!" In hindsight, this was not the worst thing he could've said. But it was the first time I'd ever heard someone say anything like that to me, so I was caught off guard. I spent the rest of the day looking at the skin on my hands. All I wanted to do was understand myself and exactly who I was.   I'm just wondering who designed my look. Such encounters, I feel, made me more conscious of my black identity. Since then, I've grown up. It was being a young person of color used to make me feel embarrassed. This now brings me courage. Because we're together on the same journey, it's only right that we must help, respect, and learn from each other.