This piece is part 1 of a two-part series (click here for part 2). They actually come from the same piece of writing, but I figured it would be too long to put up all at once, so I decided on splitting it. I wrote this in my English class following a similar reflection I had done prior (refer to The One Who Taught Me To Stand Up). I loved writing this piece because I thought the end result weaved everything together really well. I also enjoyed writing it because it is about a topic I am extremely passionate about: equality.
**Disclaimer: I’m not pointing fingers at anyone in particular, and I don’t mean to single out specific race in this piece. This is only the first part, so please keep in mind that I grew in my mindset as I continued to write. I hope you all see that part two will bring the full idea into the picture. The main theme is judgement, whether that be about race, gender, or thoughts. I hope I don’t offend anyone because that is not my intention.
So, with that, I’ll let you get to it. Here is my cover of the song Try. Here’s the original: Try by Colbie Caillat.
She didn’t care what they thought of her. It was a Thursday evening, December 1, 1955. A 42-year-old black woman sat in the first row of the colored section on a Montgomery bus in Alabama. When the white section was filled, the bus driver asked her to give up her seat for a white man; she refused. Rosa Parks remained seated. White passengers were standing in the aisle, but Parks just sat. The driver called the police. At a stop, Parks was arrested. She knew she was judged for her skin color, told to stand up. But she refused to listen. The minute she stepped foot on the bus, they judged.
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The minute my dad opened his mouth on the back of that Greyhound bus, he was judged. It was a Friday afternoon, April 21, 2017. He asked a African American woman to lower her voice; she had been on the phone for over a half hour and she was loud. “Mind your own business,” she snapped. Any judgments she had made prior to talking to him had just been amplified. “Some idiot’s been tellin’ me to shut up and I’m like mind your own damn business. He’s there on his iPad looking at Trump and I’m like Trump don’t even want y’all terrorists here. He’s trying to build a wall to keep you out.” Everyone, from the white woman in front to the Hispanic woman next to me, heard the phone conversation. That black woman judged my dad for his looks, assuming he was either Mexican or Muslim, but failing to pinpoint his true identity. What if her response about my father had lacked ethnic connections, but rather, was more geared on her sole annoyance with his comment? Why judge him for his choice of action, his religion, or his race? It is her right to be annoyed, but is it her right to judge him?
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I am an amoeba. Small, blind to the naked eye, I’m put under a microscope and observed carefully by everyone bigger. I cause disease. I mold to everyone’s standards, pretending to like something so I won’t be judged. I change shape for survival in the cruel sea of high school. I fight against the waves of students, struggling to not drown amidst all the people.
I feel like I am drowning. It’s a sea full of popular people. They have a lot of friends; they have a lot of followers. I don’t have a lot of friends; I don’t have a lot of followers. I am not pretty or popular. They will judge me when I stand up there and present, short and insecure. They will judge me when I stutter and swim out of line.
The bell rings, 1:31 PM on a Monday. I sit hidden in the fourth or fifth row over, all the way in the back. My eyes scan the room as I see people laughing, texting, smiling. I am not laughing, texting, or smiling. I am scared.
My teacher begins in the front row with the first person. I wait anxiously, looking at the clock and hoping every tick is one more minute escaping, keeping me from presenting. The period passes, I am set free. Every day is a struggle. I sit down, heart beating, stomach flipping, head spinning. Not today, not today. I don’t want to present today. Not today. Tuesday… Wednesday… Thursday. Friday. She calls my name. I stand up, stomach full of fear and heart full of misery. I walk to the front, pull up my PowerPoint, and stand in front of the screen. I start talking. Words tumble out of my mouth without my permission. Five minutes pass and I’m done. I’m free. They clap. I sit. The bell rings. I sigh of freedom.
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That bus ride home from the city in April is one ingrained in my head. At the time, I was mostly just angry. Reflecting back, I’m baffled. I don’t fully comprehend what happened. How did someone who has most likely had stereotypes placed on her judge my father? Is that it? Is this revenge for the discrimination she’s faced? Or am I postulating? Maybe she never faced discrimination and doesn’t know better? What if Rosa Parks had stood up and given her seat to the white man? What would that have meant for history today? Would that black woman still talk to my father the way she did?
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For nine years I’ve sung, harmonizing with others and building a chorus. For twelve years I’ve played, hitting the black and white keys on the piano and immersing myself in other worlds. For seventeen years I’ve talked, sharing my opinions and thoughts, being loud and demanding to be heard. I love doing these things, but doing them alone in front of an audience makes me feel sick. I almost don’t love doing them anymore in those moments.
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I walk in wearing a black dress and tights, carrying music in my hands, breathing deeply to prepare myself. I find a clean piano, practice the piece as many times as they will let me, and then sit down in the white plastic chairs in front of the big grand piano. The black piano looks so beautiful. It doesn’t need to be touched by my hands. I look around at all the kids, and I look behind me at all the proud parents and bored siblings. I take another breath, bracing myself.
The first performer, a girl, plays her short song while everyone listens carefully. Some play songs I have played before. Some play classical songs, some play pop songs, some play simple songs. The audience politely claps.
I watch as the line before me diminishes and my turn slowly approaches. The nerves creep up on me, beginning in my stomach and moving up to my head. My stomach tenses, lurches, struggles to let air in. The nerves move up into my hands which start to sweat, shaking uncontrollably. My head starts to feel overwhelmed; it spins, taking in the future performance and throbbing with anxiety.
“Radha Patel with ‘For Good.’” I stand and nervously walk over to the big piano. I place my music on the stand and sit down, seeing how far the music is from my nearly blind eyes. I place my long fingers on the white keys; I place my black shoe on the golden pedal. I take a deep breath and hit the first note before I convince myself not to. What have I just done? As my hands move, I see them shaking out of the corner of my eye. I miss the next note–my fingers won’t stay still. They have a mind of their own, avoiding the dangerous keys that produce failure.
It’s not like playing at home where I am all alone and enveloped in the music. I am not alone. I am surrounded by strangers. I feel eyes staring me down, unwilling to let me go. I am terrified.
The piece ends. They clap. I stand up and take an awkward bow, not sure how far down to go and not sure how long to stay down. I stand up, collect my music and my dignity, and sit back down. “Good job,” someone whispers. But I’ll do better next time. Next time I won’t be nervous. Next time I won’t care what they think of me.
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Psychology Today says the reflexive brain (subconscious) makes fast decisions and quick conclusions, and it is nearly impossible to prevent the brain from doing so. In an MRI study, participants’ brain activities in response to black faces was different than responses to white faces they were shown. Their reflexive brains made quick judgments without consulting the logical brain, the part that thinks, opinionates, and believes.
Is there a solution? Psychology Today says we must address both the logical and reflexive brain to make a change and reduce prejudice. How we go about doing that is not stated, but who is to say that will make the difference? Our society has already made a plethora of changes supporting new ideas of gender roles and minority figures rising to power. When will the reflexive brain latch onto these ideas? What will teach the reflexive brain to stop judging? How long until the Black Lives Matter movement and gender inequality no longer exist?
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I met a junior in September. I sat down with a group of people in the Student Government Homeroom. We introduced ourselves and got to know one another. This girl was Asian, black hair, black glasses, a slim ponytail. “Are you in precalc?” I asked, almost sure of the response. Her answer surprised me: “No.” Her face looked annoyed, sheepish, embarrassed, definitely slightly irritated. I had assumed that because she was Asian, she must be in advanced classes, and only people in advanced classes are smart.
I was wrong. I had judged her. She is smart, even though she’s not in the hardest classes possible. Her appearance, race, ethnicity, had nothing at all to do with her brain, but I made the same judgment I am sure many others make on a daily basis.
And worse yet, she knew it too. She definitely knew the assumption I was making, and she accepted that I was another person who judged based on appearance. Her reaction was in her tone. I made a mistake.
Everyday I catch myself making judgments. I question why I do it, and try to promise myself it won’t happen again. But like Psychology Today says, it is instinctive and uncontrollable. Although this silent assumption has happened many times, I have not taught myself to disregard race. I have not taught my reflexive brain to remain impartial.
Research:
https://www.livescience.com/54281-amoeba-definition.html
teacher.scholastic.com/rosa/sittingdown.htm
https://oureverydaylife.com/stereotyping-affect-relationships-40562.html
http://www.history.com/topics/black-history/rosa-parks
https://www.biography.com/people/rosa-parks-9433715
https://www.nytimes.com/2017/01/30/opinion/white-students-unfair-advantage-in-admissions.html
https://college.harvard.edu/admissions/admissions-statistics
Words for Thought 