Who am I? Even when I ask myself, I do not know.
Upon further analyzing the piece, How it Feels to be Colored Me by Zora Neale Hurston, I reflect upon my own standing in society.
Race is defined by the color a person’s skin. Whether it is black or white, or the so called “yellow” or “brown”; we as individuals are classified under a majority. And by doing so, we become blurred faces in a coward of strangers. The “superior white man” is never expected to mix with the minorities such as the African American groups. Or so, society defined it as such before the Civil Rights Movements (unless you go to the South, then this is a different discussion entirely). And why would the intelligent Asian speak to the dim-witted White majority? When did we allow the color of our skin to define us?
Even thoughout this majority of color, there lies separation. From the religious to cultural dividers of the Europeans, to those in Asia, we find ways to create barriers between ourselves, our own people and form hatred for something we do not even understand.
Now I shall share something personal. A part of my identity that I cannot control. When my parents got married, their parents were not pleased. My mother is Armenian and Jewish, while my father is Tatar and Muslim (both my parents are also Russian, but now is not the time to dwell into my family tree). It is expected of them to marry them same individuals, the same culture, and carry that into a new stream of generations. My father broke that tradition by marrying my mother. The issue? My grandfather never once agreed to meet my mother. He died without ever meeting the girl his son married. Now, my father’s side of the family loves us and our families get along very well, but my mother will never be accepted by them—for reasons no one understands or is truly part of.
I understand my family’s need to preserve family and culture, it is their identity and their love; but why do we take this and form hatred?
Upon speculation, I am the white girl in AP classes. I am expected to do average or to fail. To care more about my appearance than my grades. And to be quiet and polite, but never stand out.
Even at THS, people segregate themselves. The Asians form GROUPS of only Asians. It’s intimidating at times, and sometimes I feel as though I cannot speak to my own friends because of it. Most of them who I do not know, assume I am an idiot in the first place simply because I am white. Now on the other hand, those same Asian groups bond together because most of the time they are the only people they find similarities to, in terms of culture and interest. Not to mention, there are plenty of white majorities which target these Asian groups and even bully. But this goes for all groups, and all people. We do not to mean to segregate, but as humans we look for what relates to us.
And when you are like me who doesn’t fit into your own culture—you’re just an unidentifiable white person.
I do not know my own identity. When Ms. Valentino asked us to write in our comp. books “How We Identify Ourselves”, I left mine blank. I could not fathom a single statement that represented me.
All I know for certain is the person I wish to become. Since the age of 7, I knew I wanted to go to Harvard; that I would graduate with a Ph.D. and live the rest of my life striving for knowledge and one day winning a Nobel Prize in science. But lately it is as though I’ve lost a part of myself. I do know my strengths or weaknesses anymore; it’s as though the stress of junior year has numbed it all away. It is as though the 4.0 honor student, with determination and perseverance has been clouded and reduced to this confused and tired coward.
My identity is still somewhere within me. And the determination has not yet left me, and I shall not allow it to.
So my point is, your identity is not always your choice, but you know who you are. Only you know YOU. Even in times when you lose yourself, keep working for the person you are.
Sometimes you have to fall, to get back up.
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