Personal Narrative-Racial Stereotypes

Being Mexican means I am not as privileged as White Americans. This actually makes me very upset sometimes because although I am a United States citizen people still view me as someone who does not belong here. I only get mad and defensive when people treat me less because of my ethnicity. The University of Mexico used survey data, bivariate and multivariate results demonstrate that social connections to whites promote Mexican American activism (Santoro 2012). Overall, I try my best not to let anyone get to me, but it can get difficult at times because I feel

People of many different ethnicities have questioned my heritage, and when I defend my culture, they have laughed at me. In my Spanish class, it was tradition to celebrate Cinco De Mayo where many students would bring Mexican food or something similar. My father, an avid cook, would prepare a Mexican dish every year. For my seventh grade year, my father and I made tamales for the class. The majority of the class enjoyed them.Yet , a select few, “more” Mexican ones, did not even try them.I proceeded to ask why they did not eat them; no clear answer was given. I naively and simply thought they did not like tamales or were just not hungry so to their reply; I remarked, “Yeah I understand I like manoodle more anyway”. My comment was quickly answered with astringent laughter. Baffled by their response, I walked away not knowing they were laughing at me. What caused the laughter was the pronunciation of the word menudo,a Mexican dish, however I did not understand this because manoodle is my how my father pronounced it. The mispronunciation was due to the fact that,sadly, Spanish was not passed to my father’s generation. Honestly, this situation has truly affected how I view myself. It made me think that I was not good enough, that I did not deserve my name and that I was not who I thought I was. At one point, it

There was a time when I was young, innocent, stupid, and a scaredy cat. This happened when I was about 9 years old, when the world consisted of cartoons, school, and lots of sugar. My brother on the other hand preferred stuffed animals and dolls, and he had this one stuffed doll that looked like a farmer that wore a blue overall and had orange hair. I and my brother shared a room and he would always align all his stuff animals and dolls in an orderly fashion on the desk where they all were pointed towards us, when we were asleep.

One year, during our winter holiday my mom’s aunt and uncle and their children visited. My mom told me many times prior to their arrival that I was to speak Spanish with them since they don’t speak any English. Our interactions were awkward, I could understand but I couldn’t convey what I wanted to say to them without feeling stupid, and as a shy kid I did not do much to make myself uncomfortable. My older sister took this opportunity to make herself feel better by putting me down about something I wasn’t good

Life is like a compass. It leads us to find new things about ourselves, and to ask new questions. Throughout history we have seen many age groups portrayed. Babies cry a lot, and live to make their parents lose sleep. Toddlers are the golden children that secretly hid the older siblings favorite things. The Grade Schoolers are at that age where they start to gain responsibility. Teenagers text all day blaring music as loud as they can, with their windows down. These are stereotypes, but some can be accurate depending on the person.

Throughout my childhood living in North East Philadelphia I never felt out of the general public. I felt like everyone else. At the time I went to Anne Frank Elementary; a public school near my house. The school had a mix or races from Caucasian to Asian to African Americans. Not one group could be treated like a minority. Everyone respected each other; given that this is the city of “Brotherly Love”. It was in the year of 2006 when I was going to third grade that my parents wanted to live in the suburbs, so we moved from the city to suburbs. Just like that I went from a city with lots of races into a rich neighborhood with majority being Caucasian. I wasn’t really used to being the only brown skin in a population so this experience was different for me.

When I was younger, I had a lot of trouble talking to people. I was shy, the kind of shy that brought books to bible school classes and read them underneath of desks just to avoid socializing. People were scary, I did not know to interact with them. So I turned to spending a lot of time working with and researching animals. When I was in 3rd grade my neighbor gave me a key to his dog kennel so I could play with his puppies. I remember walking up to his house every day after school for an hour or two that year. In tenth grade, I started fostering parrots.

All people recognize race due the distinctive differences of their skin colors. Africans, Europeans, and Asians can be distinguished at a glance since the races differ is obviously from each other. If a person stated they cannot recognize race, that would not be true. Personally, is how a person’s treat the race that matters. Anyhow, I was born in a war-torn country, thus, my family and I moved from one refugee camp to the next one in search for a safe and a better place to resettle. To make a long story short, I first recognized racial differences in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, Africa. I had rocks thrown at me and was called names such as coffee pot, monkey etc., due to the color of my skin. In addition, when my family arrived in the U.S in 1994,

For my first semester of college, I decided to challenge myself and go beyond my comfort zone and move 2,000 miles away from home. Once I moved, I felt like a fish out of water. For the first time in my life, I felt like a minority. I was ridiculed for my ethnicity and my southern pride. I felt acceptance back at home but now I was living in an environment whereI felt like a foreigner. They say you never appreciate something until it’s taken away from you. I didn’t appreciate my Mexican culture or southern pride before my big move; however, when I was gone, I was ready to take the first plane back home to Texas. Several people would give me strange glares, as I would speak Spanish on the phone to talk to my grandmother. People made fun of my love of authentic Mexican food and juicy steaks. Students wrote rude comments about my ethnicity in my dorm’s bulletin board. Eventually, I decided to that Washington wasn’t the place for

As I walked up to the starting blocks I could feel my legs shaking and tears pooling in my goggles. My pre-race playlist was already blasting in my ears but I slipped my hand into the pocket of my parka and turned up the volume to distract myself. This just might be my last race ever. A sense of panic surged through my body as the heat before me stepped up to the blocks. “A vos marques!” a loud buzzer sounds and eight girls my age launch into the air. Only about two minutes remaining before the heat finishes. With my earbuds in and my tinted race goggles on I am in another world. I was so out of it I almost didn’t notice the girl standing beside me tapping my shoulder. Reluctantly I yanked out an earbud to see what she had to say.

One of my most prevailing character flaws happens to be my sense of timidity. Most people find me unapproachable, intimidating and distant. I would be lying if I said I was an out-going extrovert. Although being soft-spoken has always been a challenge of mine, I simply would not be myself any other way.

What I earlier commented was not at all derogatory in nature as you guys may perceive otherwise but a depiction of what has transpired over the recent years in regard to the political stage where the royals are duty-bound to speak out and to act for the people’s sake but preferred to refrain from stepping on it.

I close my eyes as the shock wave echoes off the rocks popping, and snapping like a tree cracking. I open my eyes looking thru the scope to find the once flourishing village decimated by the explosion. SNAP! The rounds fired from the remaining insurgents buzzed over our head's like locusts. I thought to my self as I looked over the destruction. The sweat in my eyes, heart pounding as I steady my reticle at man's chest. I thought about the crucible that forged me into the person I am today.

Growing up other children would call me a nigger, zebra, or an Oreo cookie. Being bi-racial was hard and the kids were mean. Children would pick on me because my mother is Caucasian. People always have this stereotype about Caucasians because what was done to the black people ancestries. The same racism that was done to their family is the same affect they were doing to me by out casting me because of my race. Filled with rage I wanted to fight and let the frustration loose; however, my parents always told me to rise above criticism. It never helped me to resolve the issue I had with them or make me feel better. Nevertheless, I never felt a sense of belonging or where I would be accepted with a certain ethnic group. I was too light to hang

I am not my body. The color of my skin, length of my hair, or flatness of my stomach do not define me. I am my thoughts, words, and actions; I am my choices. When we are born, we are forced into our bodies for the rest of our lives. Therefore, it astonishes me when society has the audacity to diminish me based on my physical features. My body merely behaves as a container for the real me that is inside of it. This container that was forced upon me should be my armor considering it protects and secures me. However, it has become a confinement. Inevitably, society imprisons me at the sight of my slightly darker skin. Society sees these diversities and immediately shoves a label down my throat, forcing me to swallow it and allow it to consume me until I accept it. Additionally, we are programmed to judge each other solely on these ignorant labels. Why do we criticize each other for our physical features and disparities? Why do we allow others to