The day that George Floyd was brutally murdered by the police was the day that I was exposed to an injustice that I should have been educated on much sooner. Across my predominately white town, those who would have turned their noses at the idea of protest would start to form their own opinions. Signs went up– “No tolerance for hate in this home.” Announcements at school were made. Support started to flood in for the small Black community that had previously been ignored. This uprising happened on a delay; as days before these public cries of outrage began, the signs my friend and I hung for Floyd were quietly removed overnight.
When the protests started across the country, my town was slow to join in. However, once it reached us, the movement wasn’t viewed as a movement for social justice, but instead as a social phenomenon. We had one protest set up where we walked the lengths of our town. I attended with the same friend who I put up the posters with and as we walked past each pole we’d hung a sign, only a staple was left as proof. The protest was, for some, a social media stunt. Posting that you were at a protest made you look like a good person who cared. In reality, it was partly a social event. I saw people marching who I heard utter racial slurs. Selfies were taken and posted, but not for the movement, for the credibility. It was difficult not to explode at everybody there.
Around this time was when I really realized the significance of the concept of the “white savior.” White people, who take time out of their day to march for injustice, think one protest will solve the world’s problems. I was surrounded by people who felt that they were contributing to a better world by posting pictures from a protest while wearing designer outfits. There’s our local Facebook group for “Neighborhood Watch,” which has outlawed my family from their group due to my sister liking a comment against the racist creator of the page. Occurrences like these had been frequent in my experiences growing up. My sister wanted to put a Biden lawn sign out, and my mother had said to her, “Are you out of your mind?” It was difficult to love my town in these instances. I knew that my town housed some amazing people, and that I had made lifelong friends growing up there. I found it so difficult to not be angry at where I’m from–because all of my childhood memories developed in that small Long Island town.
Growing up, I had a hard time finding “my people” as my parents would say. People who are considerate and caring. Those who are open and accepting of everybody around them, no matter the influence of their environment. My family and friends are viewed as the minority in my town, not for our race, but for our concept of race. I had been raised on equality and compassion for other people–all people. We were a minority for our economic class, an outlier for where we lived; as my favorite movie, Lady Bird, would call it–we were “from the wrong side of the tracks.”
The most unbelievable thing to me was that I still lived in a house where I had my own bedroom, home cooked meals, and a yard for our dog to run in. Yet compared to the houses on the other side of town, it was nothing. However, I found that people preferred coming to our house–we always had guests. The grand houses were nothing if they didn’t feel like home. Although I was not a racial minority, my ideologies were. I cannot even fathom how difficult it is to be the minority in my town, and if the “protests” made me angry, they must have made the black community furious. Though I don’t believe putting out a lawn sign will change the world, I believe recognizing my privilege and understanding the struggles of people of color is a place to start.
Upon arriving at St. John’s, I knew that I had made the right choice. If I had the money, I knew I could have gone to the schools that everyone else in my town went to. I had the same education as them, and worked as hard. However, I realized I would be receiving an education they would never have–one surrounded by people unlike me. I had to burst out of “the Manhasset bubble” to finally receive the education I craved. It took me a while to realize this because of the world I was surrounded by, and it was difficult for me to adjust to my new environment.
Growing up, I had trouble fitting in with my peers, and in a way, I was afraid this would happen in college. Though I’m still finding it difficult to connect with people, I know that the people around me have similar values to me; even through my major, I find people with similar interests. Beyond this class, I have been able to learn more about race and privilege in a way that my old peers would never be able to–through experience. I have a more diverse group of friends at St. John’s, and I have been able to learn through them the kind of experiences they had in their own hometowns.
Whenever I go home now, I notice the lack of diversity even more than before – since I am surrounded by so many unique people here. I am extremely fortunate that I have found a place where I can actually learn from the lives of others, instead of being surrounded by carbon copies of myself.
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