It was the summer of '82, my first year at Saint Vincent's. I'd just arrived in the city, a newly minted nurse from the Midwest, and taken an apartment on Perry Street with three other nurses. He was ... [+]
Little brothers are annoying, aren't they? They're messy and whiny, god so whiny. They take your things without asking, they're...endlessly loud. That afternoon, my half-brother was the quietest he'd been. Sitting with me on the couch he was silent as he glanced over my shoulder to watch the video on my phone, a YouTube video playing a discussion of individuals' experiences living as black people in America. I was curious as to what the draw was of this type of video to a 7-year-old boy, but hell if I was going to question it. My stepmother did not share this mindset...I got reprimanded more for showing my half-brother a social commentary video than my stepbrother and I did for sneaking out of the house for ice cream at 2 AM. "He's too young to be exposed to that type of content!" as if it wasn't people's lives we were talking about.
This is what I'd like to tell her now, and what I wish I could've (should've?) told her in the moment:
You tell me that you love me. As if I were your daughter by blood. Maybe that wasn't the problem. Maybe you just should've... liked me a little bit more.
Last weekend, you seemed to enjoy the "Filipino" food my white father made. You felt it was ok to expose your son to aspects of a non-white culture then. The "pancit" he attempted, which definitely wasn't pancit but he kept arguing that it was. Maybe I was too hard on him since it couldn't possibly compare to my Lola's pancit she's been making for over 50 years. Or maybe I was right. Either way, you enjoyed my culture then right? Well, that's convenient.
I was the only Filipino, the only Asian girl in my kindergarten class, and my best friend was the only black girl. My next-door neighbors were the only other black people, the only other family of color in my neighborhood. The downside of living in a gentrified neighborhood is the stares their daughters and I would get when we played outside. All things considered, I guess we were lucky that was the extent of the attention we received.
In middle school, a young black man I knew was killed. A boy I knew. A boy I had class with. A boy. How the hell is an 11-year-old supposed to react to that? While many are fortunate enough not to go through a similar tragedy, how can you disrespect the experiences of my black friends, teachers, and mentors whose lives can't just be turned off on a computer screen? The black and brown children who suffer due to your blindness and the callous disregard of the reality of those around you. The types of experiences that your son will never have to go through.
Tell me, your ignorance is bliss for whom, exactly?
This is what I'd like to tell her now, and what I wish I could've (should've?) told her in the moment:
You tell me that you love me. As if I were your daughter by blood. Maybe that wasn't the problem. Maybe you just should've... liked me a little bit more.
Last weekend, you seemed to enjoy the "Filipino" food my white father made. You felt it was ok to expose your son to aspects of a non-white culture then. The "pancit" he attempted, which definitely wasn't pancit but he kept arguing that it was. Maybe I was too hard on him since it couldn't possibly compare to my Lola's pancit she's been making for over 50 years. Or maybe I was right. Either way, you enjoyed my culture then right? Well, that's convenient.
I was the only Filipino, the only Asian girl in my kindergarten class, and my best friend was the only black girl. My next-door neighbors were the only other black people, the only other family of color in my neighborhood. The downside of living in a gentrified neighborhood is the stares their daughters and I would get when we played outside. All things considered, I guess we were lucky that was the extent of the attention we received.
In middle school, a young black man I knew was killed. A boy I knew. A boy I had class with. A boy. How the hell is an 11-year-old supposed to react to that? While many are fortunate enough not to go through a similar tragedy, how can you disrespect the experiences of my black friends, teachers, and mentors whose lives can't just be turned off on a computer screen? The black and brown children who suffer due to your blindness and the callous disregard of the reality of those around you. The types of experiences that your son will never have to go through.
Tell me, your ignorance is bliss for whom, exactly?