Where are my friends, when I need them?
Considering everything that has been happening in the political sphere these last two weeks, I am seeking permission right now to take up space and write about how it feels to be on the receiving end of condemning or exclusionary rhetoric. Is this okay?
Do you know what it feels like to be considered a stranger in your own country as a child? First days of school were always the worst growing up. New teachers would take one look at my culturally ambiguous name combination on the roster and would look at my hair, my eyes, my skin...anything that would give them a clue on where I was “really from.” It may be a social tendency, but it was still quite an unsettling experience for a child. “I’m sorry, how do you say your name?” they’d ask, just to be sure. Sometimes, substitutes especially, would follow it up with the expected sickeningly syrupy voice: “where is your family from?” or my personal favorite, “when did you move to this country”? All eyes would be on me as I sank lower into my seat, willing the world to open up and swallow me whole.
Although the attention used to make me feel really embarrassed, I had amazing classmates who always came to my rescue. I grew up in the same school district from second grade to graduation, so these guys knew me and knew I didn’t deserve such scrutiny. They’d pronounce my name for me if I didn’t want to repeat myself, as though it was obvious so as to make whoever posed the question squirm and move on. They had my back because I was their pal and they never doubted I was one of them. I had the power to define my identity and introduce myself however I wished and my peers accepted it without question. It was compassion and trust that made it so easy. They took me as I am and I returned the favor because it meant that we could all feel loved and happy in the classroom or on the playground. We are diverse country, unless we’re of Native descent, somewhere someone in our family had to have been an immigrant for us to be here. We have unique narratives and backgrounds, that’s how it works, duh. If only the adults of our society could be as open-minded and understanding as children.
Nowadays I hear a certain nominee for President say horrible things about different aspects of my identity. I feel disrespected today even when it is not directly about me because I know that it could most definitely be about my gender, my ethnicity, my race, my sexuality, my parents, and my children tomorrow. When he is not condemning me, he is excluding me from his policies and his vision for a “greater” America. Despite my citizenship, I’m not a “real” American in his eyes and so I’m not a priority. His followers now feel authorized to openly unsettle people like me on the street, remind us that we don’t belong here. It’s not about being “politically correct”, it is about the respect I deserve as a fellow citizen. Respect and courtesy that I shouldn’t have to demand, but should be inherent in humanity.
And I’ve never longed so much for my childhood peers, so they could help me make him squirm and go away. Maybe it was easier when we were kids because we were better at sympathizing with someone else’s tears; we knew that if someone gets hurt, we stick up for them and make them feel better. We call out the bully and make him pay for the audacity to question an innocent citizen simply because of his/her unique narrative. Instead, this man is convincing people that I am to be feared and alienated. And I wonder if they ever played with someone like me at recess as children, because then perhaps they’d know me well enough to know I am none of his lies.
The only reason you would 1) choose to vote for this man or 2) could choose to refrain from voting is precisely because you are currently not being bullied and/or have the privilege of being a silent bystander. And you are not using your voice and power to help me. Because if you look away, it will likely not impact you or your loved ones directly. You are safe from being targeted...no matter how it goes down in November.
And I might give up anything for just a taste of that privilege, even for just a few hours so I can get a good night’s sleep. But that luxury never has, and never will be afforded to me. The difference is, I used to have people who looked like him back me up. People who used their privilege to fight alongside me. Where are they now, when I need them most?
P.S. I am American, but just a brown one. Because apparently that matters.
dailybridgerton
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