Jurado 1

Jessica Jurado
Ms. Yolanda Franklin
ENC 1101
7 July 2015
I did not see race until I was taught racism
When, as children, are we first exposed to race? Was there some point at which we drew
those conclusions for ourselves, or did we learn them through the comments and actions of our
families growing up? Children are like sponges. They may seem loud or easily distracted, but in
reality they watch and listen, taking in information until they're able to form their own opinions.
However, this personality of theirs is based on core values and beliefs that are determined in this
sponge-like developmental stage in their life. So the question is: do children see race? I do not
believe so. Just as I was not scared of ghosts before I knew what they were. Maybe this is the
reasoning behind how easily young children make friends on their first day of school, they are
open, optimistic, and un-biased when viewing the world around them. When does this change,
and why? Growing up is part of life, 5 year olds cannot manage checking accounts after all, but
is the ability to see race just a part of aging?
My earliest recalled experience with race was in my kitchen, looking at the small TV
perched on the old kitchen countertop swiveled to face the dining room table. While I desired
nothing more than to watch morning cartoons as I scarfed down my breakfast before heading off
to school, my parents had made it a rule that on weekdays, the news must always be playing in
the morning. Instead of watching Dora the Explorer prance around the country side with her
faithful monkey companion, Boots, I awoke every morning to another car crash, another death,

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another crime. I dont blame my parents for doing this, they were watching to see if any of the
major roadways were blocked due to an accident or a severe thunderstorm was expected that day.
Yet, because of this, I was shown images and phrases I did not quite understand at the time. Like
a curious little kid, I would always ask my mom what certain words meant, to which she usually
responded with a basic answer or Ill tell you when youre older.
However one day, a large, intimidating African American man was shown on the news.
While I dont remember his exact offense, I recall they had video evidence of him and
broadcasted a recording of a 911 call placed by a frightened woman. Confused and a little
disturbed by this, I asked my mother about the man. I remember her face growing very serious as
she gave me her full attention, telling me calmly that he is a very bad man, if you ever see
anyone like him, you need to stay close to the adult you are with. Seeing my mother so serious
scared me, and I tried my best to remember the mans face so that if I ever saw him again, I
would know to be wary.
At the time, I took my mothers warning to mean that I should be looking specifically for
the man that I saw on TV, but I later learned that she meant for me to be aware of people that
looked scary, or as if they could harm me. So maybe that explained why my mom would always
lock the car door when we stopped at a red light and a man with a cardboard sign stood at the
corner? The more I looked at the panhandlers, the more I began to understand why my mom
would lock the door. They looked dirty and tired, dressed in old clothes that may have once been
clean.
As a child, I loved to identify and play with patterns. I wondered why certain cartoons
aired on certain days at certain times. Why every Thursday night the house would fill with the
smell and sound of sizzling pork chops, for my mom had gone to the grocery store that day. I

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also noticed that many of the faces I saw frowning at me from the TVs news report, as well as
many of the men I would see dragging their feet through what mom called the bad part of town
had dark skin.
In addition, my small school had very few African American students, and I did not have
any friends of that race until I reached middle school. All of these factors of the world in which I
was raised caused my unease around and aversion to black males when I was young. I was
hyper-aware of who was walking on the sidewalk when I played with my dog in the front yard, I
felt a rush of relief when I heard the small click of the lock when the car stopped at a red-light
with a panhandler.
My friend Rachel changed all that for me. While my group of close friends was diverse,
including the races of Cuban, Lebanese, Indian, Pilipino, and Ukrainian, I had never been privy
to the viewpoint of an African American girl of my own age. Rachel, having a white mother and
African American father, gave me insight as to what her life was like. Understanding my
ignorance of this topic, she brought it up late one night when I stayed over at her house. She told
me how, because she had her moms facial features, but her dads skin and hair, many people
assumed her race as hispanic. Rachel described how this angered her, for she was proud of the
race she had inherited from her father, and wished to be recognized for it. At that time I began to
realize how easy I have it, simply because of the color of my skin. I, unlike Rachel, will never
have to explain to my children why the band-aid doesn't match their skin, or why they don't look
like so many of the Disney Princesses. I will always have effortless access to hair products that
work, or makeup that works with my skin and eyes. Rachel never seemed bothered by these
daily, unfair limitations, but the more I hung out with her, the more I became aware of my own
privilege.

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As I had grown up believing that race, specifically the racial differences between whites
and African Americans, was a delicate subject that needed to be approached carefully, Rachel
would often shock me with her loud exclamations of I feel like I need a tan, the blacker the
better because honey that shit dont crack and similar statements. I felt the need to shush her, for
fear she would offend someone who overheard. Her noisy comments would often draw looks, or
even a chuckle, but no malicious comments were ever made in our direction. When I mentioned
this thought to her during our conversation about race, she laughed and said something like I
know what some people think of darker skin, so I figure that if I can show the world that Im
comfortable making jokes about my race- both of them- it will take the edge off the differences
between us. My conversation with Rachel really made me think about what race truly was.
Were all human, we have the same biological structure and brain functions, so why should the
color of ones skin, or the texture of their hair dictate what kind of life they will lead? While I
never hated or even disliked someone for their race, when I was little, I was intimidated and
nervous simply because of the idea that a person of that race or appearance is more likely to do
me harm than someone dressed as a clean-cut businessman.
My mother and hometown were not the only exposure to race, specifically racial
differences, I encountered at a young age. Throughout my life, my grandfather never hesitated to
voice his opinion on race. Having grown up in the late 1930s boondocks of South Georgia and
Alabama, he was taught to have a dislike and disrespect for those born with darker skin. This
attitude stayed with him throughout the rest of his life, festering within his mind. Every time he
saw a problem, mistake, or work that did not fit his expectation, he would find some way to
blame his African American workers. As a child, these harsh comments and whispered profanity
went over my head. I was too entranced by the endless peanut fields that stretched across the red

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Georgia clay to meet with the towering trees at the edge of my vision. Yet, as I got older, I began
to pay more attention to my surroundings. The peanut fields no longer reached infinity, for I
knew where the acres ended. The rich, red Georgia clay clung to my clothes and skin, not eager
to let my childhood memory of it fade. The trees no longer towered over my head, for one of
their brothers fell to my fathers axe just the other day. And lastly, I finally began to understand
what it was my grandfather said when he cursed under his breath.
At first I was curious, what was my grandfather talking about? He always seemed to be
shaking his head in disappointment, making small tuts and occasionally commenting things
such as oh what is this world coming to? I wondered what could make my usually loving and
fun grandfather so unhappy. The more I thought about it, the more I began to notice the
frequency of his disapproval. He would never express his thoughts until the subject of his
annoyance was well out of earshot or perhaps could not hear him at all. Yet I quickly noticed his
pattern. He harshly criticized African Americans, on almost anything. Most things were simply
human error, minor mistake, a slight inconvenience, but to my grandfather, they were
unacceptable. When I finally put all the pieces of his behavior together, I was shocked. He had
the strangest ability to smile as he said some of the worst things a child could hear. I did not
recognize the impatient, unforgiving man who slammed the car door angrily, complaining about
his employees idiocy in not properly hanging the deer feeder.
As I grew to my pre-teen years, my grandfathers voice began to annoy me. Even simply
watching TV, he would judge and criticize the things he saw, even the commercials. Nothing
could be advertised without some kind of judgmental comment. I couldnt understand his anger,
and it saddened me to finally come to terms with the fact that my grandfather harbored such hate
for an entire group of people simply because they were different. I had lost the kind, loving

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grandfather I once looked forward to spending time with. While he never once turned his
malicious opinions on me or my family, I could never truly look at him the same way again. His
enmity had forever corrupted the image of my silver-haired, smiling grandfather.
He was always so negative, and harsh, and unfair. I once, being younger and hotheaded,
snapped at him for this very thing. While I dont recall the TV program nor what exactly I said to
him, I remember storming upstairs and grabbing my sketchbook in order to relieve some of my
anger. Upon tucking myself into a small windows nook and beginning to calm down, my mother
entered the room. Ill never forget what she said to me that day. She explained my grandfathers
terms of birth and the society in which he was raised. And while neither she nor I agree with his
traditional viewpoints, we should respect him enough to simply ignore it. And we did, I held my
tongue against my elder for years, allowing my mother and her sisters to handle my grandfather
when he began to let his words get away from him.
Now, I am more composed with my thoughts and ideas but still find it quite ironic that through
his constant expression of his strong opinions, he drove me further and further away from that
way of thinking. Yet, as I grew, this subject has only grown more and more popular in society. I
became more aware of the world around me and the kind of situations that people live through.
Education crushed the ignorance that was clouding my opinion of others. However, I will never
be able to know everything, therefore I feel that the best way to think is to believe that every
story is told differently depending on ones perspective.