The African Dream

I didn’t comprehend the true meaning of being an African American young lady until I was called a black bitch at the age of 8. During the summer of 2008 my mother enrolled my sister and I at Extend-A-Care while she worked. My friend and I were doing arts and crafts. A boy by the name of Jason constantly teased me. I was baffled, since I never bothered Jason. It was around 12:15 in the afternoon, and our group leaders were preparing us for nap time. Jason was 13 years old, so he was in a different group. As I was preparing for nap time Jason kneeled down, and whispered in my ear, “You black bitch.” He then stood slowly up looked down at me with his sky blue eyes, and laughed at me.

I didn’t understand what black bitch meant. Until I told my mother when she picked me up that evening. I saw the rage in her eyes, as she saw the sorrow in mine. The way she fixed my bad day was buying a kid’s meal for my sister and I.

Unfortunately, we can’t end racism with a kid’s meal. I was in eighth grade playing around in gym class when I fell and hurt my arm. My best friend, Dana, walked me to lunch when were released making sure I didn’t hurt my arm. We were playing around when a kid named Thomas bumped my arm. I yelled out, “OUCH!”, he turned around looked at me so devilish and stated, “I’m sorry I don’t speak black.” I just stood as still as stone. The reaction he gave me was one to remember. I told my principal, and Thomas was suspended. That was the first time I saw someone take notice of discrimination.

When I entered high school I thought it would be a different scene. Not the same issues I dealt with as a child.

It wasn’t the same it was worse. During my junior year we did Socratic Seminars in AVID on diverse topics. We discussed the presidential debate and our thoughts of Donald Trump. My friend Cole shared how he perceived Donald Trump. I was being optimistic when a few peers were taking our opinions to heart so our teacher ended the Socratic Seminar. Cole then mentioned his family didn’t believe in interracial relationships. I tried to comprehend what he was saying when he turned to me and asserted, “Calisto, there is a difference between a black person and a nigger.” My soul was livid, but I just walked away.

If it wasn’t for these experiences I faced I wouldn’t be able to understand the person I am. I would like to take a DNA test to find where my bloodline originated from in Africa. The discrimination I faced makes me a stronger human being.






Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s