For my unborn children
I've been trying to find the words, but mostly all I have are tears. I can't explain to you how 26 years of repressed trauma from rejection, marginalization, isolation, sexism, ageism, racism and fear resurfaced in every tear I've shed in less than 24 hours.
I was born, raised and educated as an American. I served my country. I defended this country to foreigners. I've spent my entire life trying to defend my birthright and my rightful place in this country.
I am a minority. I am first generation.
In pre-school, there were two Amanda's, Amanda and Amanda Silva. My first name wasn't foreign enough to describe me, so I was always called by my full name. During recess, I played by myself. In first grade, I spent every lunch period crying my eyes out because the other girls at my lunch table would choose one person to ignore the whole time (I had one ally). In third grade, a girl in my class said she hated black people during recess. I was afraid of speaking up and often didn't think I was smart because I was teased so much. It took me almost a decade of going to school with the same girls before I felt comfortable to be myself. I was a minority and I felt that reality everyday.
On September 12th, 2001, I woke up not recognizing my father with a clean shaven face. I and many others with my skin complexion and features were targets of hate speech and unprecedented anger. As a New Yorker I was outraged and traumatized by 9/11 and then rejected by my fellow Americans in the same breath. My family and loved ones were categorized and racially profiled. I had never felt racism so fully.
In high school, I owned my marginalization. I was different. I was an overachiever. I was an outcast. I was an activist. I was an ally for my LGBTQ friends before being open minded became the cool thing to do. I was still bullied and sometimes ostracized but I was stronger.
The first time I truly believed I was beautiful, I was twenty years old.
I am a woman.
I am held to impossible standards. I am expected to be educated. I am expected to be polite. I am expected to be beautiful. I am expected to be graceful. I am expected to be humble and agreeable. I am expected to cook. I am expected to clean. I am expected to be well-spoken but soft-spoken. I am expected to work twice as hard for less. I am expected to get married. I am expected to have kids.
I am expected to meet everyone's standards of perfect. I am vulnerable to sexual assault and harassment. I live in a culture where as a victim I am blamed.
I live in an America where I am perceived as lesser - because I am different.
On the surface, you see me smile. But underneath my smile hides an America that I've repressed. The America I've repressed is not the same America my children will grow up in. My unborn children will have shades of my complexion and I refuse to let my life be theirs too.
To my fellow Americans, I respect you and your decisions - whether you voted or chose not to vote. I accept that last night our country collectively made this decision. I also believe that our country can still be united in the complicated beauty of our differences. We can't afford to be complacent in the fight for equality anymore.
I am not going anywhere. I am not leaving you when you need me and my differences most.
I was born, raised and educated as an American. I served my country. I defended this country to foreigners. I've spent my entire life trying to defend my birthright and my rightful place in this country.
I am a minority. I am first generation.
In pre-school, there were two Amanda's, Amanda and Amanda Silva. My first name wasn't foreign enough to describe me, so I was always called by my full name. During recess, I played by myself. In first grade, I spent every lunch period crying my eyes out because the other girls at my lunch table would choose one person to ignore the whole time (I had one ally). In third grade, a girl in my class said she hated black people during recess. I was afraid of speaking up and often didn't think I was smart because I was teased so much. It took me almost a decade of going to school with the same girls before I felt comfortable to be myself. I was a minority and I felt that reality everyday.
On September 12th, 2001, I woke up not recognizing my father with a clean shaven face. I and many others with my skin complexion and features were targets of hate speech and unprecedented anger. As a New Yorker I was outraged and traumatized by 9/11 and then rejected by my fellow Americans in the same breath. My family and loved ones were categorized and racially profiled. I had never felt racism so fully.
In high school, I owned my marginalization. I was different. I was an overachiever. I was an outcast. I was an activist. I was an ally for my LGBTQ friends before being open minded became the cool thing to do. I was still bullied and sometimes ostracized but I was stronger.
The first time I truly believed I was beautiful, I was twenty years old.
I am a woman.
I am held to impossible standards. I am expected to be educated. I am expected to be polite. I am expected to be beautiful. I am expected to be graceful. I am expected to be humble and agreeable. I am expected to cook. I am expected to clean. I am expected to be well-spoken but soft-spoken. I am expected to work twice as hard for less. I am expected to get married. I am expected to have kids.
I am expected to meet everyone's standards of perfect. I am vulnerable to sexual assault and harassment. I live in a culture where as a victim I am blamed.
I live in an America where I am perceived as lesser - because I am different.
On the surface, you see me smile. But underneath my smile hides an America that I've repressed. The America I've repressed is not the same America my children will grow up in. My unborn children will have shades of my complexion and I refuse to let my life be theirs too.
To my fellow Americans, I respect you and your decisions - whether you voted or chose not to vote. I accept that last night our country collectively made this decision. I also believe that our country can still be united in the complicated beauty of our differences. We can't afford to be complacent in the fight for equality anymore.
I am not going anywhere. I am not leaving you when you need me and my differences most.
Comments
Post a Comment