I often wonder why my mom decided to raise me in a place where she faced so much racism growing up... That is what I am thinking about tonight... My earliest memories are of Panama I don't remember racism there but I do remember beautiful people of all colors walking around never once did I consider ugly being based on the color of a persons skin. When we lived in Philadelphia on our return to the states I am sure racism existed but I suppose I was too young to notice and it sure was never brought onto Mrs. Marys porch. My Philly family came in all shades of beautiful just like the people in Panama so nothing seemed strange about differences in skin as a matter of fact I don't ever remember noticing.
When Mom told me we were going to be moving back to California I was excited. I knew I had a grandmother there and Aunts and Uncles and cousins something I never really experienced but sounded like total fun. It wasn't soon after I got to Greenfield California that I would know that I was different. One of my younger cousins asked me why my skin was brown and I said I don't know why is yours so white he looked confused and that was the end of our conversation. In the first grade a little girl named Tanya asked me if she could touch my skin because she thought it was neat and I said sure but make sure you wash your hands first cus i seen you picking boogies. our differences were still innocent at this point. In the second grade is when I would begin to really feel pain both physical and emotional because of my skin color.
Greenfield California is a small farming town the population is mostly Mexican and White. When I was in the second and third grades I could count the other black children on one hand. I would soon learn what it was to HATE a place. I loved school in the third grade my teacher Mrs. Laganga would read Beverly Clarey's Ramona books and I always felt just like Ramona except I knew she was white and I was not. It was in the second grade where I was told I couldn't play tether ball because I was black I believe it was that same year one of my very own cousins would pretend not to know me after I spoke to her on the playground. I remember hearing her friend say you know that black girl and she lowered her head and said no I don't know why shes talking to me black people are ugly. That year I use to run home as fast as I could because I was scared of a boy who use to call me a Nigger and chase me home I was always small but this kid looked like his parents put steroids in his cereal he was so mean and he had so many friends I can recall many days where he and his friends would throw rocks at me all the way home that was the year I would learn to fight. I can always remember my Dad saying sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never hurt you, (he lied they do hurt) but if they touch you, whoop there fucking ass and if there bigger than you, you pick up the closest thing and you whoop there fucking ass. One day when I got tiered of running and the big kid had fresh braces I picked up the biggest rock I could find and bust him in the mouth with it. He never threw another thing at me he didn't follow me home it didn't stop him from calling me a nigger but he never touched me again.
Racism in school was tough it really did hurt my feelings when kids who said we were friends would come back the next day and tell me that they couldn't be my friend anymore because I was black. I never understood it but it did hurt my feelings. I think even worse than racism in school for a grade school kid is racism in your own family. I remember my favorite aunt calling me Toya Murphy its funny now but I hated it then because even as an 8 year old I knew she was referring to me being black you see I didn't have a distinguished laugh like Eddie and I didn't wear leather suits either. My uncle would call me Toya Shadow... and would always sing "me and my Shadowwwwwwww walking hand in hand" and I just knew it was not just a cute little song he was singing to me, at 8 I understood he was singing that to me because I was black like a shadow. That same cousin would pretend not to know me and even join in when kids were calling me names on the school yard. I knew my Mom loved her family very much but as a child i was starting to dislike some of them more and more. My Mom raised me to respect my elders and love my family no matter what so I grew up very conflicted about family and color.
When I was 11 years old we moved to Chicago and for a whole year I felt normal again I lived in a Latin King neighborhood but it was peaceful when it came to color I loved Latin Kings all the time I spent in California being told how different I was and here where these Mexicans Puerto Rican's Cubans blacks and whites telling me I was not only welcome but beautiful we only lived there a year and for some reason I was too young to understand we went back to California.
I hated Middle school in California just liked I hated grade school in California for all the same reasons but things got easier I knew every year I would have to fight because I was black so I would fight the biggest meanest one of the bunch and that usually got me a cool pass. When I was in the 7th grade my science teacher took me aside and asked me if I was having any problems I think I said no but he told me he would always be there if I needed to talk I thought that was awesome even though I never talked about it. I thought it was funny that instead of teaching kids tolerance and acceptance they put me in counseling for my "Anger" and once I got to high school i was told by the principal I was just going to have to accept that i was differentand I was going to be called a nigger from time to time the same way people would make fun of him because he was balding he was an asshole.
I think I was suppose to hate being black. I think that's what the kids I went to school with wanted. When I was 15 my mom started letting me go to Philly for the summer and something happened I was beautiful there Boys thought I was cute my family never brought up color and differences went unnoticed. You see I never really hated my skin color I always thought it was beautiful I did hate that I didn't know how to voice it I did hate that I lived in a place where the people were so dumb that they would actually try to make me hate myself. I don't know what it was but I could never hate not like myself because I was black.
When I got out of the military I lived with my own family in Greenfield for a while. One of my little cousins said to me he wasn't really my cousin and black people are from outer space I have children of my own and my oldest son has the smoothest darkest most beautiful skin I have ever seen I just couldn't do it, let him live there where people thought it was okay to tell there kids those kinds of stupid stories where, I could feel some of my own family members shame to say they were related to me. It was a cycle of pain i choose not to repeat for my own son plus hes not a lover not a fighter like his mama.
I didn't write this to hurt anyone i grew up with or my family but its my story and I wanted to share a small part of it. Now that I am a grown woman and I can effectively communicate my feelings I hope it can start a dialogue and some healing for myself.
