The Doe’s Latest Stories

"I passed!” My 18-year-old daughter texted me, and suddenly, she could drive. I was relieved because she had failed the test twice and was getting increasingly cranky about it. I was also relieved because I have spent the last 18 years as the primary child-conveyor/transporter/sherpa. When she becomes friends with someone on the other side of the city, it is me who transports her tiny and then less tiny and then full adult-sized body to the doorsteps of the friends who also, over the years, have increased in height. If she is performing in a play in the suburbs, it is me who drives 45 minutes suburb-ward and then sits in the parking lot until the suburbs are done with her to transport her back to her rightful home with all the cats, because driving another hour-and-a-half round trip is even more unpleasant.Squatting in a suburban parking lot (or, if you’re lucky, at a suburban Starbucks) is, as you’d imagine, a somewhat tedious way to spend the waning years of your existence. You gaze across the strip mall at the SUVs and you may ask yourself, like David Byrne, “Well, how did I get here?” You may turn to your daughter and say, “This is not my beautiful Prius!” And she’ll respond, “…” because she’s not paying attention to you. She’s on her phone.

I have spent the last 18 years as the primary child-conveyor/transporter/sherpa.

My Daughter Had Some Setbacks When Trying to Get Her License

Since David Byrne asked, I can say that I do know broadly how I got here. First, we had a child who was adorable and tiny and largely unable to get herself around on her cute, pudgy, but initially largely vestigial legs. Then, we distributed various household tasks—my wife agreed to make more money, provide health insurance and shop for pleasing apparel for the incipient human. And I agreed to get the duly clothed critter to whatever clothed-critter activities should arise over the next roughly decade and a half.Initially, we thought this was a 16-year or so commitment. But—as you probably guessed, since my daughter is 18 and not 16—there were complications. Our city makes it difficult to get your license right at 16, but we gave it a good shot. She had driver’s ed. She had driving lessons with professionals who were not us. She had her permit. She was practicing and I hadn’t actually had a heart attack when she drove the car that close to the parked cars on my side—oh my god you’re too close pull over OH MY GOD!Where was I? Oh, right. No heart attack, nope. Right on track to the DMV.Then, COVID hit. The DMV closed. We spent all day, every day sitting in the house staring at the dog rather than sitting in parking lots staring at SUVs. And I like the dog better than SUVs. But still, it was a setback.Then, as a setback to the setback, my daughter went on a trip to a friend’s cabin and said friend (perhaps on controlled substances of various sorts) tipped the canoe, leaving our daughter’s phone and her permit in the phone case at the bottom of a lake.Said friend was sincerely sorry, and we did not reprimand them because we like them and kids, what can you do? But now we had to go to the DMV and get a permit before we could do more hair-raising driving practice and then take the driver’s test. The additional step proved too much for us for…well, a good long time. A good long time also being coincidentally the exact distance between our house and my daughter’s various extracurricular activities. Also between our house and the home of her significant other. How could you even find a significant other who lives that far away when you’re in high school? “What happened to dating the girl next door?” I asked her as I stared at the very large SUV looming over our Prius.“…” she said, because she was not listening to me because she was on her phone.It was the significant other who finally did it, though. I do occasionally have other things to do with my life (like drive my wife places, for example), whereas my daughter wants to spend her summer with her significant other literally all the time because she’s a teenager and that’s what teenagers want to do. Thus motivated, she got her permit, took some driving lessons and headed to the DMV. Then to the DMV again. And finally to the DMV and passed so she never has to go to the DMV again, thank god. She is driving now without us in the car, so we do not see her when she almost hits things, which is not ideal but maybe better than being in the car when she almost hits things, overall.

I got here because I love my kid and I want to make her happy. If I’m going to waste my remaining years, that’s not a bad way to waste them.

I Enjoyed the Time I Spent With My Daughter While Driving Her Around

At last, for the first time since I lifted the small creature with the vestigial legs and transported her from bed to crib, I am free. She is self-propelled and needs me no more. Huzzah!Right?Well, sort of. I don’t relish sitting in Starbucks parking lots for hours on end. But on the other hand, when you lift the incipient human and she blinks and screws up her face and then spits up on your shoulder before settling down, you do feel like you’re serving a useful function. I may not exactly want to stare at the back of an SUV creeping toward the home of my daughter’s significant other, but when David Byrne asks, “How did I get here?” I have a ready answer. I got here because I love my kid and I want to make her happy. If I’m going to waste my remaining years, that’s not a bad way to waste them.Driving the child has other upsides too. It’s true she has a powerful ability to ignore her chauffeur and concentrate on the latest text from that significant other instead. But the Prius is quite small and she is trapped with me in there. At home, she can emerge only briefly for food or to open the door for friends before skittering off to her basement, like one of the cats escaping but with less floof. But in the car, sometimes, despite herself, she’s got no choice but to interact with me. Recently, we got to talk about what an awesome drummer Chris Frantz of Talking Heads is, for example. She tells me what she’s reading (Jules Verne, most recently. “Is it good?” I asked. “Sure! It’s Jules Verne; it’s got energy!”) She bubbles about a production of Marlowe’s Faust she and the significant other and the friend who drowned the permit and some others are planning to put on. Talking to her is fun. Even better than when she used to spit up on me (though not necessarily than when she used to cuddle up afterward).It's great when your kids become more independent and need you less because then you can heave a sigh of relief and go back to your own pursuits—like contemplating the empty hole in your life left by the fact that your kids need you less. First, she can crawl to the next room; then, she’s taking herself to the park; and finally, she’s out of her room and out the back and out of the garage and into the whole world. You wave goodbye. Then, you get ready to walk the dog. Good dog. You still need me.

Even in the 21st century, it's difficult for society to accept a couple in which the man stays at home to manage the house and kids and the woman goes out to earn. Gender stereotypes are still deeply rooted in people’s minds.

Staying at Home With Our Daughter Works Best for Our Family

My wife works as a metro train operator, and I work as a content creator for a nonprofit organization. The nature of my work allows me to work from home, while my wife has to go out daily, commute to the station and then travel across the city. We both enjoy what we are doing and take pride in our work. We share a loving bond. We have been happily married for the last six years, and we have huge respect for each other and for the roles we play in managing our house and our daughter. Over time, as our careers have moved forward, we figured out the roles we would want to play in living together. I had laid the groundwork for being a stay-at-home dad by once joking about it to my wife before our marriage, telling her that: “I don’t think I’ll be able to ever work from an office without missing and worrying about the safety of our first child.” My wife and I talked about our general desire to have a parent be her primary caregiver, but it was always with the understanding that it was my preference to fulfill that role and not my wife’s. And after our daughter was born, because of my wife’s busy schedule at work, in the initial weeks, it was I who started taking care and spending more time with our daughter compared to my wife. It was I who started setting up the food, hygiene and sleeping time for the baby and managing my work accordingly. Gradually, it became very important to me to be with her, so somehow, with my initial efforts, we had child care miraculously lined up through sheer determination and luck. For me, on a day-to-day level, just moving through the day with a joyful and exploratory sense of adventure and my family falling asleep peacefully and well-fed is a great success. I’ve never felt overwhelmed with the work and responsibilities I have in taking care of our house and daughter, as my wife and I try our best to support each other in whatever way possible—sometimes even without being asked for help. That’s the level of understanding and empathy we share between us.

It certainly raises eyebrows and causes heads to shake.

Our Neighbors Make Fun of Me for My Choice

But I’ve had to defend my choice to stay at home! It certainly raises eyebrows and causes heads to shake. Being a stay-at-home dad requires being a team player, ignoring sexist stereotypes and putting most of your ego, some hobbies and interests aside for a bit and seeing the big picture. Our neighbors laugh at us and ridicule us, as they find it really strange that I stay at home, cook food, take care of the child and plants, do cleaning and wash clothes—all the while my wife is operating a metro train and traveling across the city, carrying hundreds of passengers safely to their destinations. During a social event in our neighborhood, one representative from each family was supposed to bring a homemade sweet and put it in front of our common peepal tree and gather there to worship the tree together in a circle. I had gone with the idea that maybe by this, I’d get to talk and introduce my family to everyone. But since I was the only man there in the gathering, our neighbors started calling me names, and I clearly heard one of them calling me “woman of the year.” It was humiliating. We get ridiculed by the society members where we live who, still after centuries of economic and social development, are fixated on the gender-based roles that they have created in their minds without any openness to hear new ideas. Changing mindsets is difficult and almost impossible for those who are not even open to hearing the different perspectives. Now we are not invited to any gatherings of the neighborhood group anymore. After the peepal tree incident, there was another instance where my wife and I got heckled by the neighbors on our way to the main gate. We decided to fight back to defend ourselves from the mocking, which resulted in the society committee unanimously deciding to ban us from any social gatherings, which is ironic, as the society committee exists with the sole aim to bring families together for peace and harmony and to support each other in any kind of adversities. Of course, my wife and I felt dejected by this decision and the behavior of the members, but we take pride in our choices, and we try to be happy in our small family of three.

I clearly heard one of them calling me 'woman of the year.'

Being a Stay-at-Home Father Isn’t Stressful

A lot of people, before the baby was born, asked me if I was sure I wanted to do this. My mother would ask me if I was sure I wanted to do this, if I realized what I was getting myself into. Now sometimes, my friends, distant relatives and colleagues ask me how it really is being a stay-at-home parent, and I tell them that it can be hard and definitely tiring and frustrating, but it’s never stressful. I feel lucky to be in this situation. We together want to raise our child to be an open-minded and empathic person who will have the courage to accept the differences in the perspectives of the people in the world.I always had a very unloving relationship with my own dad, where most times, communication issues were compounded when both wanted a better father-son relationship but neither one knew quite how to go about it. He wasn’t super emotionally giving but was certainly not a bad parent; he always took care of all my material needs. To know that my daughter is going to be so much closer to me than I am to my own dad makes me really happy. People always say they want to learn from their parents’ mistakes in raising their kids, and I feel like so far, I’m doing that by having my daughter growing up close to me emotionally, and that feels really amazing.I believe we should celebrate the ever-changing role of fathers in society. Stay-at-home dads aren’t just looking after the baby. We are the feeder, the storyteller, sleep negotiator and much more. We aren’t trying to be mums, and stay-at-home dads shouldn’t ever be perceived as a threat to the role of mums. Both parents have a role to play, and stay-at-home dads should be encouraged and celebrated, not prejudged.

Growing up, I was asthmatic, poorly dressed, scared of girls and obsessed with Dungeons & Dragons at a time and a place where that was not in any way a social boost. Still, even the saddest social disaster has dreams of becoming less disastrous. It didn’t really happen in my teens (because of the scared of girls thing). Nor did it happen in early adulthood, as my artistic efforts of various sorts failed to impress anyone in particular. But even so, I thought my time was coming. If I couldn’t be a cool kid, or a cool young man, maybe, just maybe, I could come into my own as a cool dad.And I did! I am the cool dad. I am Crispin Glover at the end of Back to the Future, but cooler because that movie thought being rich is what makes you cool, and since we are not rich, we know that’s not true. There’s only one problem: Being a cool dad, it turns out, isn’t that cool. It’s kind of like being an uncool kid, in fact. You hang out over here, while over there someone has interesting parties to which you aren’t invited.

No doubt some (uncool!) parents will be shocked.

Being a Cool Parent Is Giving Your Child a Safe Space to Be Themself

My wife and I ended up as the cool parents via a few easy steps. First, though our house is tiny, our daughter’s room in the basement is large, so there is space to entertain. Second, we somehow, through the miracle of genetic recombination, created a daughter who is, in fact, cool and magnetic and beloved by her peers. All the cool queer kids (of which there are many) want to be wherever she is.Finally, and maybe most importantly, we’re very committed to allowing our daughter her own space and privacy. This practically means we’re not closely policing either romance or cannabis use. No doubt some (uncool!) parents will be shocked. (We can only speculate since we don’t hang out with uncool parents.) But in general, we figure that, especially for queer youth, encounters with the police are likely to be a lot more dangerous than encounters with a spliff. (My daughter was, in fact, the target of homophobic comments from police at least once.) It’s also easier to make sure everyone is vaccinated and tested if you’re holding a kickback at home than if you’re going out to bigger parties.Along the same lines, sexual activity is probably safer in your own space where you can prepare than if you’re forced into inconvenient nooks and crannies and automobiles. When my daughter has a guest or guests, they know they’re safe while they’re here, and they know that they can get a ride home from me in a pinch. It’s safe. It’s the home of the cool parents. That’s us!My daughter appreciates that her parents are cool. Her friends appreciate it too. Or so she tells us. We are dependent on her reports because we don’t have a lot of contact with her friends. Even when it’s just one or two guests, they don’t generally eat with us. Instead, my daughter surfaces like a skittish pizza badger, grabs the pizza and descends once more, amidst distant cries of “pizza!” We have been told the friends make much of the various fuzzy cats that visit. But again, this occurs out of sight, and the cats generally keep it to themselves, as cats will. There are a couple of cheerful, extroverted acquaintances who will chat at us if forced by circumstance. “Thank you for welcoming me to your home again!” one said with impressive courtesy. Then they were gone, not so much like a thief in the night as like a teen who doesn’t really want to talk to parents.

Maybe they were just making fun of me.

I Know Teens Don’t Want to Hang Out With Their Friends’ Parents

My daughter praised my musical taste when I was dropping a load of chattering punk musicians at various homes and public transport intersections after punk band practice. There was general acknowledgment that the Sinéad O’Connor album I was playing was OK. Maybe they all really liked the dad alternapop. Maybe they were just making fun of me. Maybe they were humoring my daughter because they like her. There’s no way to know because (again), they all pretty much avoid talking to me or my wife if at all possible. The cool kids didn’t talk to me when I was an uncool kid and—with the exception of my own daughter, who, just by virtue of proximity, can’t avoid me entirely—they don’t talk to me now that I’m a cool dad. This is not exactly the cool dad fate I had imagined. I had visions of chatting with the youth about—well, Sinéad O’Connor. Or The Green Knight. Or the state of contemporary theater. And I have, in fact, talked to the youth about those things. Very occasionally.For the most part, though, being a cool dad means specifically not forcing your child or their friends to deal with you. Parents have a lot of power in relation to young people. We’ve got the houses; we’ve got the cars; we’ve got the money and the ability to call in other, even scarier authority figures. If parents want to force kids to interact with them, they can. Parents can make kids eat at the table. They can search them for cannabis or alcohol or condoms. They can go down into the basement and stomp around and demand that you, and you, and you, pay attention to them for some period of time. And there are some parents who do all of those things.My wife and I try not to, though, because we are aware that teens don’t want to hang out with parents. They do not want to sit seriously in some sort of sitcom plot and listen to elders dispense wisdom. Instead, they just want a little space to call their own in which they can be left alone. I’m a cool dad because I don’t force anyone to interact with dad (cool or otherwise) unless and until they want to know where to find snacks in the kitchen or whether they can get a ride home. In the meantime, I sit in my room reading, much as I sat in my room reading when I was a teen. Now my wife is there with me, though. We roll our eyes together when the ambient noise from the guests spikes and wave at our daughter when she every so often checks in. Which is, admittedly, kind of cool.

At a young age, I learned that sometimes the meanest remarks are made out of naivete.“Ouch! You poked me!”“I heard that Black people are that color because they’re dirty. I wanted to see if it was true.”My classmate knew that what she had done was wrong, somehow. She looked sheepishly at her fingertip, still clean and pink, and then back at me. We were eight, waiting for the gym class warm-up to start.“Oh, well, I showered yesterday…” I probably tittered nervously as I said it. It’s a habit everyone in my family shares. And then class started, and I never told anyone about the exchange.I grew up in a small town on the East Coast. It had less than 5,000 people, an "excellent school system” and a development that mixed cookie-cutter cul-de-sacs with 200-year-old farmhouses (sometimes with the farms still intact!). The town has great beauty. Driving down county roads, you can see rolling hills stretching out over the horizon dotted with trees and houses and fields. You understand why some folks stay there forever. Other times, driving down the same county roads, you come across a stop sign with a swastika spray-painted onto it. You understand why some folks are desperate to leave.

I was starting to realize that race does matter, actually.

I Struggled to Fit in as a Black Girl

At 25, I like to say I'm a New York City “seven” and a hometown “three.” It took me a long time to realize that attractiveness is not an objective quality.At 14, I started overhearing the boys in my class, who were all white but one, asking each other whether they liked blondes or brunettes. This was a little puzzling to me—are Black girls brunettes? My dad asked, a little harshly, why I cared what they liked. Was I trying to attract white boys? At 16, I looked in the mirror and generally liked what I saw. I wasn't "hot" (if you can even apply that word to a 16-year-old kid), but I thought I was cute! And I had a group of friends whom I loved and who loved me. I was having a good time going to football games and school dances, even if I overheard things I didn't like while I was there.“I can’t believe Melissa’s dating a Black guy. You know how they get at this age.”“On Friday, someone at Brett’s party called Rachel and her sister the N-word, so they left! I thought the two of them were being a little dramatic, honestly.”“Well, of course, she’s super good at track; she’s, like, the only Black person on the team.”By 17, I had a driver's license. My friends had driver's licenses and boyfriends or girlfriends with whom to drive around. Behind the wheel, I had a sneaking suspicion that I would never get a date in high school (I was right). I was starting to realize that race does matter, actually. Not just in a macroscopic, societal sense but very personally.

I Felt Like I Was Never Good Enough for Someone Else

When I was 18 and applying to college, my mom and I went away for a weekend to tour schools. I was one of five in my friend group who had never been kissed. That Saturday night in my hotel room, I looked through Snapchats from friends, dancing and drinking and getting up to general shenanigans at a party in someone's barn. “Wiggle” by Jason Derulo pumped in the background as they twerked across my phone screen."I hope I get to go to the next one," I thought as I drifted off to sleep. The next morning, I woke up to a text from my friend Liz. Four of the five remaining unkissed had paired off and made out with each other at the party. Obviously, I was devastated. I was the only Black girl in the group, and now I had the only virgin pair of lips. "Omg no way, congrats!" I texted them. "What the fuck, why doesn't anyone want to kiss me???" was the message I wanted to send. I was irritable and rude to my mom for the rest of the trip. Also, by now, I knew why no one wanted to kiss me. It was because I was “other,” strange, taboo—Black. Good enough for a friend, but not enough to be let into a family.

It was because I was 'other,' strange, taboo—Black.

My Hometown Never Gave Me the Confidence I Needed

I think I always understood that separation on some level, but it flashed into sharp relief during my senior year. I stopped thinking about who I could date or who might like me. I focused on platonic friendships, leaned into sports and hobbies that I liked, learned that I loved going to concerts. Basically, I found the contexts where the internalized racism of others had the least impact on their interactions with me. It was a great survival tactic.However, I see it was doable because soon, I would go to college in a city, and I hoped that there, I would get to date people who found me and my Blackness to be acceptable. I always say, "My town is a great place to grow up," and in the same breath, "Thank God I don't live there anymore."

In the midst of the recent uptick in anti-Asian activity and otherwise harmful rhetoric as a result of COVID-19, I feel compelled to address yet another complicated layer to this unfortunate trend: gendered anti-Asian racism. Think you don’t know what that is? I bet you do. It’s Asian fetishism. For Asian women, dating apps are equally the most welcoming and the most oppressive spaces for us to exist. We get a lot of attention, but most of it is unwanted because it’s racially driven. Statistics have long shown that Asian women are highly favored in online dating, whereas Asian men fare much worse. I used to think I caught a lucky break being born as a woman versus a man, but I don’t anymore. Asian women and men face the same system of oppression but on opposite sides of the coin. For me, it's objectification; for men, it's de-objectification. For both of us, it’s stereotypes based on race. It’s an extremely complicated feeling knowing you are desired for something you’re born into, and for this attribute you’re also a magnet for hate. There is, indeed, a fine line between love and hate.Most people of color (POC) date knowing our race is a plus, minus or, at best, a consideration for any potential partner. White is the default in America. We are not that. Everyone has preferences that range from superficial to Socratic, but we have to acknowledge the tectonic shift that occurs when a preference turns into fetishization. Asian fetishization is often driven by expectations of deferential behavior, meek personalities and delicate physicalities—all stereotypes deeply rooted in imperialism, misogyny and other problematic systems. We need to stop accepting Asian fetishization as a type or preference and call it what it is: gendered, anti-Asian racism.

There is, indeed, a fine line between love and hate.

I Realized Racism Lived Within Me

Despite my awareness of this dynamic and all the ways in which it hurts me, I’m also painfully aware that racism lives within me. When I was hit with the realization that I operate under the same white supremacist and misogynist views as my nemesis (the White Man), it was devastating. We live in a society that centers on the white male experience, so it’s excruciatingly difficult to break free from that and find a new position—one that actually serves you, if you’re a woman or POC. In my late 20s, after a lot of therapy, it occurred to me that I exclusively dated blond-haired, blue-eyed, conventionally attractive white men because that’s who I wanted to be. And since my Asian hair and Asian eyes and overall Asian face betrayed me, I did the next best thing—I dated it. White supremacy has taught us all to revere whiteness and find close proximity to it in order to belong. We are trained to erase our own othering identities and strive to be as white-relatable as possible. For most of my life, I wouldn’t date Asian men and found ways to be as white as possible. That, my friends, is internalized racism. It’s crushing to come to terms with it. But do you know what’s more crushing? Realizing you live in a world that makes it impossible for you to escape racism, even if you manage to dispel as much of the internalized stuff as possible. I bet you know an Asian woman partnered with a white man. I’d also bet that Asian woman is attractive. White men decided that white men are the Übermensch, so once you cross a threshold of attractiveness, you gain access to the coveted white man. I bought into this for most of my life. I used to pride myself on seducing jocks who were typically interested in pretty blondes. I would joke I was a gateway drug or that I was colonizing the colonizer. On some level, I knew I was being oppressed and I wanted to flip the power.Eventually, it became clear the joking had to stop. I realized I was in a really hurtful situation, and that my desire to play with this power dynamic was only perpetuating a putrid and toxic ideology. I had to stop feeding into this narrative and start actively working against it. And since it was too enormous to change on my own, the most I could do was call it out, name it, speak truth to power.

I had gone on a series of dates with white men and discovered they all had Asian fetishes by the end of our first dates.

I Couldn't Escape Being An Object Of Fetishization

I can vividly recall the moment I realized the enormity of the problem. I had gone on a series of dates with white men and discovered they all had Asian fetishes by the end of our first dates. As a lifelong target of this particular type of racism, I can feel it in my gut when I am in its presence. But also, I’ve learned by now to just ask. I confront all men I suspect to be fetishizers with the question: “Do you have a preference for dating Asian women?” The answer, 100 percent of the time, takes some form of: “I like women with dark hair and almond-shaped eyes,” or, “I like that Asian women have smooth and hairless skin,” or, “You have a really strong work ethic,” or, “You age well.” I realize how unbelievable this sounds, but it is the horrid reality I live in. Naturally, I never react well to these answers, but when I point to the absurd racism of these convictions, I am either met with outrageous justifications or worse, defensive anger.After the fourth eerily similar experience in a row, I fell into a dark hole of confusion and despair. To be clear, this was probably my 40th experience like this throughout my life, but to experience so many in such rapid succession with men I thought I was purposefully selecting was deeply defeating.

I'm Rejecting The Commoditization Of My Existence

I made the intellectual decision to stop dating white men, simply because I know how hard it will be to find a white man who understands the systems that work against me well enough to relate to me in any real way. It’s not the fetishization, per se, but a basic lack of understanding of oppressive systems and racial inequity that creates a gap I’m not willing to bridge. But here’s what’s messed up. You’ve probably noticed that I’ve only mentioned dating white men. That’s because I have historically been more attracted to white men. I’ve come a long way from only dating Tim Riggins, but I still have a strong attraction to white men that I can’t shake. And I can’t decide if I need to shake it. I realize I am a product of my society, but I know too much to just accept the way things are. Essentially, I’m stuck in a literal no man’s land where my body wants a white man but my brain doesn’t. I guess the only place to go from here is a lonely and decrepit life with my dog. But the fact remains that I am wholly uninterested in dating someone who commodifies my race, and therefore my existence.

I was so good at being the best.In class, in extracurriculars, and even in my friendships, I always did more than was necessary, and reveled in the fruits of my labor: high grades, incessant high praise and the admiration of my peers. But none of this was for its own sake. Each extra mile I went made me feel a little closer to earning my right to be there as a Black girl in a predominantly white institution.All my life, I have attended prestigious, white institutions, and all my life I have excelled in them. Racking up accolades for academic achievement, leadership positions and clubs, I did everything right. But all of my moves were practiced and intentional. Both the dopamine hits of approval and the sweet anticipation of working hard to taste the fruits of my labor felt like an adrenaline rush I was in the middle of all the time.Looking back, this was neither anticipation nor adrenaline. It was anxiety.

I carried that burden for years, making all the right moves.

To Me, Black Excellence Wasn’t a Choice; It Was Expected

I was always restless. Inactivity felt like a cardinal sin; rest was out of the question. Any time not spent chasing excellence was wasted, and I didn’t want to prove that the assumptions people made about me—that I was there to fill a quota, that I was less qualified and less sophisticated than they were—might be accurate.And it wasn’t all in the pursuit of vanity—it felt like my responsibility. I had heard it all my life: a chorus of voices telling me how proud I was making everyone, what a good example I was. My success was the success of my family, my extended family and my community—it takes a village, after all. They saw themselves in me, and saw my success as their own. My excellence disproved their own self-doubt, too, and reassured them that their internalized notions about Blackness and their own worth were wrong.So, having been raised with the weight of my “potential” impressed upon me, it was a given that the consequences for not living up to it would not be personal, but dire for the whole community. I carried that burden for years, making all the right moves, getting into all the right schools, reading all the right books and talking with the best of them. “Don’t waste it,” everyone told me, and that propelled me higher and higher up the social hierarchy, fueling my adrenaline and anxiety with each rung.

No Matter What I Achieved, It Never Felt Like It Was Enough

Yet, as I forayed further inside these circles, they became more complex. I acclimated to the correct cadences, I learned to recognize status symbols and tried to acquire the few I could. Yet the more I tried, the further away I seemed.There was always something more to be gained, I finally realized—some other mantle to reach. Even if I got the highest grades, people saw me as a scholarship case. Even if I wore the right clothes, carried the Longchamp bag and bought the Moncler coat, the status symbols were wasted on me. At work, people were surprised by my eloquence but still underestimated my ability. I felt like an imposter and no one was mistaking me for one of them. For all my trying, and even my successful attempts, I felt like I was playing a game of catch-up, hoping to reap some vague rewards of outward approval. The dissonance between my home community’s perception of my success and the fraud I saw in myself only deepened my imposter syndrome. Suddenly, I felt different than the people at home, and was othered by the people at school. My isolation meant I had no one to turn to, and the fear of disappointing the people who had supported me and nurtured my potential made me feel stuck, hopeless.So I kept climbing the ladder. I got into a good college. I spent the summers doing prestigious internships where I was, again, almost always the only Black person, or one of very few. By all accounts, this was making it. I tried to feel satisfied by my achievements but they never felt tangible, as though resting on my laurels, even for a second, would break them. My place in these privileged spaces always felt precarious, and my paranoia was taking its toll. Afraid to be exposed for the fraud I still felt I was, I worked and worked and worked in an attempt to prove myself.Until I burned out.It was inevitable, my burnout, and with it my disillusionment of the systems I had been taught to revere. Why was I working myself to exhaustion when no matter how hard I tried, I was still just the Black girl? And why was I so desperate for the approval of a system I knew was rigged?

The Problem With the Black Excellence Movement

The 1:1 value I had placed on my self-worth and production output was a direct function of the capitalist system I know to be flawed and embroiled in white supremacy. Basing my value on my acceptance by elite institutions, from boarding schools, to private colleges, to prestigious companies, was not really validating my community, but validating the hierarchies that oppressed my community. All my work had not been in service of myself, but in service of the institutions which had succeeded in making me feel like I was inherently “less than”—the very function of racism.In an embodied way, I had given myself to racist institutions in the name of progress and being a credit to my community and my race. And this outdated lie that Black excellence is defined by success in established systems is perpetuated relentlessly. From news highlights on “first Black” milestones, to award shows and the entertainment industry, giving Black artists tiny morsels of recognition while exploiting their output and aesthetics for monetary gain, we’re taught to appreciate these moments of recognition and hunger for them as I had.However, my experience within the upper echelons—befriending the children of dukes and billionaires, working for internationally recognized names and institutions—proved that there was no space for me there. Marginalized groups are always going to be othered by elite institutions, which were built to advance the white heteropatriarchy and continue to oppress and gatekeep other communities. My place there had only served as an example of adherence, that if one were to work within the system, they would be rewarded.

I quickly realized that I was working at the expense of my community.

Rejecting Black Excellence and Embracing My Mental Health

But after I realized I was working fruitlessly at the expense of my mental health, I quickly realized that I was working at the expense of my community, too. To be a credit to our race is to resist the notion that we need to prove our worth measured against whiteness. To advance my community is to dismantle the systems that I was embroiled in. Learning to reject the narrative I had been taught took years of self-doubt, isolation and tireless, thankless work. Finally, through introspection about my values, I realized that the excellence I was striving for was actually leading me away from Black liberation and activism, and further inside the broken system at the expense of my mental health. So many of us are stuck in this cycle but it's time we get out. It may have taken burnout and breakdown for me to get here, but I’m glad I did.Now I am learning not to look for approval in my work, my output, my purported “success.” I find fulfillment in engaging in my community in a meaningful way, and reading, working and organizing towards liberation.

Growing up, I spent a lot of time learning about activism and Black Lives Matter, but nothing that I experienced compared to the explosion of protests around the world following the deaths of Breonna Taylor and George Floyd. I could barely open social media without being forced to relive the realities of many Black people around the world—during the ongoing deadly pandemic. It was harder for people who aren’t Black to turn away from these injustices too. Everyone was suddenly getting with the times—dare I say woke—even though it may not have been an authentic stance against police brutality and anti-Blackness, but a personal pat on the back that called for others to view them as an agent of change.

Truth is, the plights that Black people face haven’t changed, nor have they been dismantled.

Was Corporate Support for Black Lives Matter Just Pseudo-Activism?

“Pseudo-activism” is when groups show support for a movement or set of beliefs solely because everyone around them is doing so—and not because they actually believe in the message behind the cause. Rather quickly, I noticed that the influx of support for Black Lives Matter was the latest bandwagon that brands were jumping on. The type of violence that Breonna Taylor, George Floyd and countless other Black people have experienced is nothing new, and I felt conflicted seeing the sudden support. On one hand, it was amazing to see so many companies that I’d supported throughout the years releasing statements, but I could never seem to silence that voice in the back of my head that kept asking: What took you so long? Why now? What was so significant about this year that was different from 2012, when Trayvon Martin was murdered?What I realized is that while many conversations held in 2020 may have been about Black people, we weren’t always the target audience. The public statements that we saw a lot of large companies releasing suggested that after years of silence, they were suddenly deciding to take a stand against anti-Black racism, but they didn’t feel sincere to me. From Microsoft to Adidas, I spent a lot of time reviewing the PR-proofed missives companies released, but what spoke volumes to me was the fact that while these brands were pledging their support for the advancement of Black people and against police brutality, there was a noticeable lack of Black people in positions of power at these same companies—including ones that I’d worked for myself.It was easy for companies to draft a letter to avoid looking like a company that had stayed silent during a revolution. But many of them failed to acknowledge the anti-Blackness at work in their hiring practices, daily operations and the pay inequalities that exist between Black employees and their white counterparts.

When It Comes to Supporting Black Lives, Actions Speak Louder Than Words

Seeing the problems that other companies have had with diversity is sad, but what impacted me more was being employed by a company that made a statement internally, while also having white employees that were being paid higher salaries than me for the same work. Or seeing white coworkers whose salaries weren’t impacted during the coronavirus pandemic, despite company-wide emails suggesting that all employees had received a reduction. Their performative support hit so close that it crushed my spirit and made me question my career. When you’ve worked hard to be a champion for a company while witnessing the devaluing of Black lives daily, it feels like a slap in the face when you have to carry on as if nothing is happening.It quickly became clear that companies deciding to speak out or stay silent was more about them than it was about me—and once the news cycle moved on from speaking about Black Lives Matter, the social media campaigns from large companies stopped. Black people are still experiencing the same oppression, but the commitment to dismantle anti-Black racism where it exists seems to have been put on the back burner.

We need those in positions of power and privilege to do the work as if their lives depended on it. Because my life does.

It's Easy to Support Protests, but It's the Hard Work After That Matters

Truth is, the plights that Black people face haven’t changed, nor have they been dismantled. Following the protests that erupted in 2014 after the murder of Michael Brown, six prominent activists involved with them mysteriously died, and police ruled that none of their deaths were suspicious. KJ Brooks has detailed how, after she went viral last year for a video holding members of the Kansas City Police Department accountable, the KCPD followed her to the point that she had to hire a private security team. Despite the patterns that take place before our eyes, Black people can’t get the support we need when our lives are in danger, when an act of violence can be prevented. The attention usually only comes once another life has been lost. It’s terrifying, and I wouldn’t wish these experiences on my worst enemy. When we hold white supremacy accountable, our lives are at risk. When we ignore it, our lives are still at risk.Companies committing to challenging anti-Black racism and police brutality isn’t a one-time deal. We need those in positions of power and privilege to do the work as if their lives depended on it. Because my life does, and it’s not the responsibility of those who are oppressed to get rid of oppression that we didn’t create. I hope that the companies that released statements last summer do right by their sentiments, and put in the necessary work within their companies as well as the community. It’s possible. It will take a lot of work, but that’s the point. Committing to change because everyone else is doesn’t solve the problem—it simply delays solutions from taking place. If you are going to stand for Black lives, remember to do the work when the cameras stop rolling and the world is no longer watching.

When I was six, my best friend asked me why I was white when my dad was Black. I laughed and told her that he wasn’t Black, he was brown. She looked at me like I was a fool and said, “Aren’t all Black people technically brown?” And thus began my practical education on racial identity in America.The truth is, no one wants to hear about racial experience from someone who looks like me. And that’s fair. To think that a society built on the persecution of Black and brown people needs more think pieces about whiteness is utterly tone-deaf. So this is not an essay on whiteness. It is a story of what happens when identity and loss collide, and how the collective identity of a family shapes its individual members. I am the child of a Muslim immigrant from Pakistan and a white Irish Catholic lady from New Jersey. There is a trickiness to the language Americans use to talk about race, one that leaves no room for my existence. There’s the Black-and-white binary, as well as the amorphous “person of color” designation given to those with more than strictly European lineage, whether or not they have African ancestry. By this logic, I fall into the catchall category of “people of color.” But I am not a person of color; I am a genetic fuck-up that defies all principles of inherited traits. Rather than an even blend of my parents, I came out as white as my mother—pale as a ghost, blue-eyed and so blonde I looked bald. My eyes and hair darkened with age, but my skin stayed translucent, with my constellations of freckles as the only trace of melanin. So I cannot be a person of color, because by definition whiteness is the absence of color. A white person of color is an oxymoron.

Thus began my practical education on racial identity in America.

What’s the Difference Between “White-Passing” and “White”?

I don’t remember the first time I heard the phrase “white-passing,” but I should, because it changed everything for me. I wasn’t “white” anymore, I was “white-passing.” A white-passing person of color. Finally, I had a way of describing myself that separated me from my white peers, without encroaching on the space of real people of color. Or so I thought. Calling myself a white-passing person of color worked because, for the most part, there weren’t any Black or brown people around me besides my family. Leaving my predominately white suburban hometown for the diversity of a liberal arts campus gave me a much-needed reality check. The first time a Black student corrected me, emphasizing that to call myself a person of color was inauthentic, and the “white-passing” qualifier was useless, I cried. Then I felt like an idiot for crying over such a coveted, life-saving privilege. I looked in the mirror and saw myself for what I was, the epitome of white fragility, insisting on my brownness the same way whites accused of racism insist, “But I have Black friends!” There is no practical difference between being white and white-passing. If an employer sees me as white, if a loan officer sees me as white, if a cop sees me as white, if any person who does not know me intimately sees me as white, then I am white. If I enjoy all the perks of white privilege and suffer none of the consequences of being brown or Black in America, there is no question, I am white. Racial identity comes not from your blood, but from how others see you. Deep down I knew this. I even accepted it. But then came Rachel Dolezal. In our class discussions about her infamous racial fraud, I was shocked to find my experience compared to hers. Most of my classmates agreed, a self-proclaimed “white-passing person of color” was no different than a white woman pretending to be Black. And was it? I asked myself over and over, what was the difference between Rachel Dolezal and me? Were we both just white women desperately clinging to some sick fantasy of otherness? I was telling the truth, but what did it matter? Why did I have such a visceral reaction to being called white, when I am clearly white?

Even Within My Family, Our Racial Identity Was Complicated

I’ve spent the better part of my years since college trying to answer these questions. And as far as I can figure, it comes down to two things. It breaks my heart to never be seen as my father’s daughter, and it frustrates the hell out of me that, as a “white” person, people assume I only have the experiences of a white person from an all-white family. My young friend was the first person I remember that questioned my relation to my father, but she certainly wasn’t the last. While my two brothers’ skin would effortlessly darken in the summer sun, I would look on with envy, freckled and burned. Strangers, family and friends alike gushed at how my little brother was the spitting image of my father, marveled at how my adopted older brother could easily have passed as our father’s biological son, and then would look at me, smile sadly, and remark that I, of course, was my mother’s daughter. I could take the constant questioning when my father was there to reassure me. When I looked closely at our family photos, I could see we shared the same crooked smile, round face and high cheekbones. I clung to these family portraits as irrefutable proof that I was, despite the color of my skin, half Pakistani. But many years before I looked like the woman I am now, my father, the only unimpeachable tie to my Pakistani heritage, died.

Losing My Father Meant Losing My Heritage

So when I am called white, even by myself, it effectively severs the connection to my beloved father that I have fought time and memory to preserve. Loss and identity are tangled together for me, and you cannot question one without exhuming the other. This is why discussions about my identity make me so emotional. Every time I’m assumed to be white, I’m 11 years old again, sobbing uncontrollably over my father’s body. Losing my father made our whole family whiter. Without our dad standing next to him, my little brother started to pass. In the winter his skin gets almost as white as mine, and though his face is unmistakably my father’s, without him around for reference, no one could see it. People who came into our life who had never met my dad started to remark how much my brother looked like our mom. Our older brother immediately stood out now as the darkest member of our family, leaving no question that he was adopted. We didn’t see our Pakistani family as much. We never ate Pakistani food because it upset my mom’s stomach. We didn’t go to the mosque or celebrate Eid or listen to Punjabi music anymore. None of us learned to speak Urdu. My mom got remarried to a fellow white Irish Catholic, and just like that, all visible traces of Pakistan disappeared from our family.We had traditional biblical Anglo-Saxon names. All of my cousins, even the ones that were half-white like me, had names from the Quran. They spoke Urdu and made yearly trips to Pakistan. They had been bullied in school after 9/11, despite sharing my skin tone. Culturally, they were Pakistani and therefore could not pass. But who is to say we would not also have grown up with Pakistani culture if my father had lived? Would I be less passable—less white—if he was still alive? Would I speak Urdu with a native tongue and make samosas every week? Would I drape myself in my grandmother’s saris for special occasions? Would I have seen the country that my family lived in for centuries? Would I, in spite of my mother’s skin, be accepted as a person of color if I lived and acted less American and more Pakistani? Probably not, but I will continue to wonder for the rest of my life what my relationship to my identity would be like if it wasn’t cocooned in grief.

When I am called white, even by myself, it effectively severs the connection to my beloved father that I have fought time and memory to preserve.

My Mixed-Race Family Has Made Me a Witness to Racial Violence

The second reason I can’t seem to be satisfied with condensing my ethnicity to just “white” is that I have experienced things that fully white people never could. While white privilege renders the difference between white and white-passing individuals nonexistent, the differences between growing up in a white family and growing up in a mixed family are enormous. Being white-passing from a mixed family may not change the way the world sees you, but it absolutely changes the way you see the world. A white person from an all-white family would not have seen her six-year-old brother held at gunpoint by a cop. A white person from an all-white family wouldn’t know firsthand that the “random” extra security checks at the airport are not random but rather triggered by Muslim surnames. A white person from an all-white family would not have to explain to a police officer that the man she is with is actually her dad, and not an abductor. A white person from an all-white family wouldn’t flinch hearing the things white people say when there are no brown or Black people nearby. A white person from an all-white family would not fear the violent shockwaves of Islamophobia following 9/11 or Trump’s Muslim ban. In no way do I mean to suggest that these experiences took the same toll on me as they did on my brothers and father. But how is it possible to carry so much racial trauma and remain unaffected, even if you are just a witness? While there is no need for the term “white-passing” when describing an individual, I think it, or something like it, is necessary in the context of a mixed family. To be seen as white and only white is not only to lose my father all over again, not only to whitewash my DNA, but to dismiss all the hard-earned truth about race in America that I have gathered over a lifetime of watching loved ones be persecuted. My ethnicity, therefore, cannot be a one-word answer. There is no verbal shortcut that adequately sums up my heritage. I live in the liminal realm of both and neither. I am half-Pakistani and half-Irish, and I refuse to compromise either. I won’t pick a side, even if the world has picked one for me.

The day of Eid al-Fitr is one of the most exciting holidays for a young Muslim kid. You’re showered with money and gifts by family and friends. What more can you ask for? But at the age of six, on the morning of Eid in 2002, my father was arrested by the FBI, accused of being a terrorist. The day was all a blur to me. I can only remember crying and being confused. It wasn’t until last year that I found out what really happened that day. The FBI Joint Terrorist Task Forces (JTTF) had taken him to jail. I have slight memories of my mother telling me my father would be gone for a month to go on “business trips.” I also remember sitting in the courthouse waiting rooms for hours wondering what was going on. Now that I’m older, I understand why my mother kept this away from us: It would’ve been traumatizing for me and my sister to know that the JTTF tortured our family with constant surveillance over a six-year legal battle. After finding no evidence, the judge finally acquitted him of all charges and stated that he had done no wrong. By speaking his mind, he was simply exercising his First Amendment right.

Why Growing Up Muslim in America Is Difficult

Growing up in Los Angeles has been a unique experience. My father is Arabic and my mother is Hispanic. I was lucky enough to be raised with two very different realities: My mother was more open-minded whereas my father was a bit stricter, especially when it came to religion. Before my parents married, one of the things they agreed on was that their children would be raised Muslim and carry Muslim names. Until this day, people have trouble pronouncing my name, Ibrahim. I’ve heard it all, just one of those annoying things growing up. Sometimes, it would take teachers weeks to finally get my name right. Substitutes were particularly creative with my name and at times made me the laughingstock of the class. Today, most of my friends call me Ibra, which is much easier to pronounce.When I turned ten, I struggled with fasting the month of Ramadan. In most Muslim countries, kids start fasting at the age of five or six, which I find a little crazy. I guess it’s doable when you live in a society where the entire population is participating in the ritual—community does matter.In the U.S., I grew up with people from all types of religions, and at ten years old, seeing other people eat and drink during the day was extremely difficult. At times, when I was out of my house, I was tempted to break my fast. After all, no one cared or was watching over me during school. I’ll admit, I did sneak in a few sips of water here and there “accidentally.” Oops, I was supposed to rinse and spit. As I got older, I began to be much more committed to the ritual and understood the importance of being true to my commitments. I also came to love the sensation of taking in my first bite of food and sip of water at sunset.

You don’t have to be religious to be a good person.

Figuring Out How to Be Muslim in America Was Especially Challenging

I can still hear my father’s voice in my head: “Allah is always watching.” At times, this voice filled me with fear and at others, it seemed to energize me. I grew up practicing Muslim principles. I read the Quran and attended Sunday school like every good Muslim kid. Islam was a huge part of my identity growing up and it molded me into the person I am today. One can say my father was very strict and imposed the religion on me. At the end of the day, when you get older, you make your own decisions—I still practice Islam but am not as religious as I once was. I do believe in Islam and that being a good person is most important, too. You don’t have to be religious to be a good person. This is where my mother’s influence comes into play.I had a lot of questions growing up because I was an Arab Muslim, an Ecuadorian; and my mother is Catholic. She isn’t very religious, but she raised me to be kind and gentle and to always be compassionate and caring. Most of my mother’s side of the family resides in Los Angeles, and I grew up with many cousins who weren’t Muslim. They never understood why I would fast, and wouldn’t eat pork. They would jokingly try to entice me to try bacon, but I never did. My father and other Muslims consider pork as the most unclean animal, connected to disease, and this teaching always remained firm in my mind. Years passed, and my mother’s side of the family no longer serves food at any of our family gatherings. I guess our Muslim ways had a positive impact on that side of the family.

Being Muslim in America After 9/11 Was Even More Challenging

I remember being on the receiving end of racism because of my ancestry. I recall being referred to as a “beaner.” In L.A., if you are Hispanic, people will automatically assume you’re Mexican, using the word as a form of insult. Sometimes, I felt unsafe to reveal that I am Arab and Muslim, and it occasionally felt safer to say I was Hispanic. It was a blessing to have the choice. If I said I was Hispanic, people would automatically assume I was Catholic. I felt judged and sometimes criminalized by people—sometimes at first glance. After 9/11, it was difficult for Muslim Americans, even in metropolitan cities like L.A. Being born in American is not a reason for people to expect me to erase my roots or feel shame because of my ancestry.During Eid or Ramadan, I would go to the mosque wearing my dishdasha, a long traditional white dress that men wear in the Middle East. My traditional gown brought me much attention from people outside of my community. People would look at me in a way that I felt their fear and discomfort. Their expressive look made me feel unsafe. The one place I always did feel safe was at the mosque surrounded by my community. In high school, during our yearly international fair, I would attend wearing my dishdasha. I could hear people whispering “terrorist” under their breaths. At times these comments felt hurtful and brought up the question, “Do I belong?” I grew out of the need to react to ignorant comments and began to fully embrace my culture and religion.

After 9/11, it was difficult for Muslim Americans.

America Isn’t the Only Place Where Muslims Are Misunderstood

I began to understand how society portraits Muslims. It’s not just the U.S. that targets Muslims. The world news in practice paints Muslims as synonymous with terrorism. They taint the Islam community based on the activity of extremists that represent less than one percent of the Muslim population. They have done a great job at giving me and my culture a bad reputation. The scary images and stories delivered through the news propagate hatred that triggers tragedies like the 2019 mass shootings at the mosques in New Zealand. Can you imagine the kind of ugliness that fills these attacker’s minds?As a young Muslim adult, I realized ignorance and racism put my father in jail, but the First Amendment set him free. I see that my generation is open-minded and accepting of others. Will Israel and Palestine ever come to a settlement? I don’t know. Can Muslims and Jews live in harmony? Yes. Some of my best friends are Jewish and we will remain friends until the day we die. Our religions unite us in many ways. There is hope. If I, an Arab Hispanic Muslim, can be friends with everyone, so can you.

The topic du jour that seems to riddle every politician’s social media feed, blast across newspaper headlines and take up an uncanny amount of time in campus classroom discussions across the U.S. is racism. And, as an African woman with little time for frivolities, allow me to just comment by saying: Quite frankly, I am sick of it.Permit me to be candid: I get it. As a first-generation American whose parents are African, I understand that racism is real and, oftentimes, impacts people profoundly in the United States. I know the history.I am not denying that racism exists—there will always be unscrupulous people who care more about the color of my skin, and the religious convictions of my choice, than who I am as a person. And, of course, I have witnessed racism firsthand. I wear a hijab; I would be remiss to not admit that I have, many times, been looked at with a sideways glance. I have experienced random stares, smears and vulgarities based exclusively on my race and ethnicity. That—the behaviors of others—I have absolutely zero control over.What do I have one-hundred percent control over? Easy. I can control how I react and how I choose to respond—or not respond—to random racist comments or innuendos hurled in my direction. How do I respond? Simple. I don’t pay them one bit of attention.

Racism Stops with Me

Of course, if racism was—as some people like to portray it to be—an ongoing, never-ending reality, I might not be as eager to shrug my shoulders and walk away from the casual slights. But, simply put: It is not.Out of the 10,000-plus interactions I have with people every year, maybe four of them—at most—are marginally uncomfortable, smelling of a minor hint of racism. The other communications are pleasant, amicable and seem to have nothing whatsoever to do with my race or ethnicity.The four that are slightly uncomfortable are not worthy of my time nor even one small shred my energy.A note for all of the “heroic” people out there, who think it is helpful for you to valiantly come to my defense like a white knight riding his noble stallion into battle: Save it for someone else. Even though I know that the people who stand up for me and jump to my defense sincerely have wonderful intentions, their actions are mutually exclusive to my desired outcome. What I want is to ignore the racism, and, how can I accomplish this goal when people are making mountains out of molehills?

Quite frankly, I am sick of it.

Ignoring Racism Is My Way of Fighting It

The next logical question that springs to mind is: Why do I not want to pay attention to these racist scoundrels? I don’t want to pay them a bit of heed because, ultimately, they do not matter and neither do their words or actions. Instead, I want to deprive racists of my time and energy for two primary reasons. First, I earnestly feel that if I give them attention, then they have won.Ask yourself: What do racists want more than anything? The answer quickly becomes apparent: They want attention. They want to get a rise out of me; they want to make me mad. Therefore, if I give them the attention that they are blatantly seeking, then I have allowed them to win. My second reason for not wanting to waste one minute of my time on them is that, at the end of the day, I simply choose not to be offended. If I show them, repeatedly, that I am indifferent to their slights and rude comments, then I hope that they will come to realize that I am not fundamentally different from them. I hope that I will be viewed, eventually, as just one of the masses in just a different shade of skin tone—which is precisely the outcome I seek.

I am not denying that racism exists.

Fighting Discrimination Sometimes Hurts More Than Helps

Perhaps an example might be more poignant and revealing. A couple of weeks ago, I decided to treat myself to an exquisite meal at a swanky, multi-Michelin star restaurant. No sooner am I seated than the waitress comes up to me and asks me to pay for my food before I order. While taken aback slightly, I do not miss a beat. I simply pull out my credit card and, in a polite voice, graciously offer it to her. Problem solved, right? Not so fast. From somewhere behind me leaps to my rescue a social justice warrior, ready to come to my defense as if I had just been hit by a bolt of lightning. She abandons her first course of food and decides to begin yelling at my waitress for having the audacity of making me pay before I ordered. My waitress, still not backing down, simply said that it was company policy to do pre-pays randomly—that it was just a part of the normal protocol. Now, we all knew this was a big, fat, blatant lie.Of course, the restaurant does not ask white businessmen in thousand-dollar suits to prepay for their food. We all know that the whole thing is happening because of my race. Yet, instead of adding fuel to the fire, I jump to the waitress’ defense and kindly ask the social justice warrior to not get involved. Rather than honoring my request and going back to her meal, she boldly proclaims how it is her fundamental duty to say something when she sees a grave injustice transpiring. She loudly insists that the manager comes out to explain this atrocity. The scene continues and, before any of us know what has happened, we are both standing outside of the restaurant wondering what the hell just happened. Hands on our hips, we are both pissed. She is angry because she has witnessed secondhand discrimination, and I am livid that my meal—which might I add, I had waited a month to enjoy—has been snatched from me. Who won this battle? Certainly not me.What she doesn’t get is that she and her fellow warriors are undermining my fight. They are making it harder for racial minorities to move along and become a member of society. And what these people refuse to understand is that the overwhelming majority of us do not care. We don’t! And, believe me, it is not because we are so tired of constantly fighting and being on edge. We don’t care because racist people and events are few and far between. They do not matter.They are equivalent to the dinosaurs, in my book, and are basically a dying breed who are trying like hell to live on in a world that no longer is habitable for them. The proverbial meteorite has already hit, and it is just a matter of time before the last of them breathes its last breath. (If fellow Americans only knew true racism and conditions in parts of Africa like where my parents are from, they might calm down about a weird glance.)

A note for all of the 'heroic' people out there, who think it is helpful for you to valiantly come to my defense like a white knight riding his noble stallion into battle: Save it for someone else.

Human Nature Is Misconstrued As Modern-Day Discrimination

I am also constantly hearing people say things like it is racist when white people want to live among other white people in similar neighborhoods. Or how people who only date a particular race are racist. Look, here is the reality of life: People like their own cultures and want to be around their own people. People feel most comfortable when they live, work and interact with people with whom they have something in common. That isn’t racism: That is human nature.No one calls me a racist when I want to live in cities and neighborhoods with fellow Middle Easterners. Instead, such places are lauded as greater preservers of culture and unique oases in the middle of crowded cities. So, why are predominantly white neighborhoods looked at any differently?In my humble opinion, this is not racism, this is just human nature. Cultural attraction—being attracted to someone from the same culture as you are—is real and needs to be recognized as such. It does not make someone a racist. It makes someone human.Social justice warriors and anyone else who wants to see racism lurking at every turn and hiding in every corner: Please, consider what you are doing and the message you are sending when you jump to our rescue and push your agenda—which is not control necessarily our agenda—on others. Racism is dying, and we shouldn’t give it even a speck of attention or fuel the flames of its existence. Instead, ignore it, live your life and allow minorities to live theirs. Racism will be gone in a generation or two, and, in the meantime, let’s just enjoy this rodeo they call life.

I was proudly wearing my Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt when I was stopped getting off the bus by an older white male. He was amazed that a teenager who looks like me even knew who Lynyrd Skynyrd was. Sorry mate, musical tastes aren’t defined by how brown I am.I’m not Black. Neither am I white. However, for reasons that I suspect have a lot to do with my upbringing, my personal history and our society, being told I’m white doesn’t enrage me as much as being told I’m Black.I was born to a Black father and a white mother, and I grew up squarely in the middle. With my “latte” skin, I was praised on one side for my lighter tone, and on the other for my sun-kissed complexion. I sometimes, as a child, wonder why I wasn’t just one color. But otherwise, I experienced racism like any child would: with incomprehension and dismay.

Skin Color and Culture Aren’t the Same Thing—Even Though People Think They Are

I spent my formative years fluctuating between two colors and two cultures. And then, without any real conscious decision on my part, I wound up very much on one side. As a Jamaican friend pointed out when I was in my early 20s, I’m “so white.” Everything that defined me—except my skin color—planted me firmly in the white camp. To align with one culture or another, we have to understand them. Society would have us believe that “white culture” is mainstream culture. “Black culture,” on the other hand, is defined by subcultures predominantly adhered to by members of society with a certain melanin level. As Justin Simien, director of the 2014 movie Dear White People, explained in an op-ed for CNN, Black culture “is what people assume about [B]lack people and how they should sound, live and act.” To be Black, one has to do this and like that, as if one’s skin had anything to do with matters of taste. One’s skin is, of course, really what it comes down to, but this is not the only thing that defines “Blackness,” at least not in the sociological sense. Cultural Blackness has very little to do with how Black someone is, but our society’s obsession with differences would have us believe it is one and the same thing.

I experienced racism like any child would: with incomprehension and dismay.

Am I Black or Not?

As a mixed-race woman, where I stand in this division of culture gets somewhat complicated. My genes are all tangled, and I could, technically, be said to be Black—or not.From my art university background to my obsession with travel, from my love of classic rock to my very real addiction to cappuccinos, my Jamaican friend could not fathom anyone mistaking me for a Black woman. To her, everything about me screamed “white.”And she might be right. In the years since her comment, my inability to be “Black,” inasmuch as what society would associate with Black culture, has only been exacerbated. Of course, I rebel against any idea that melanin levels influence one’s tastes and cultural associations. Our societal need to put people in neat, easily-understood little boxes isn’t going anywhere, leaving me stranded here, not white, but in the white box nonetheless.How does one navigate the Black/white divisions our society’s normalized when one’s identity is both everything and nothing, Black and white? Every Black-bashing comment around me is accompanied by a look in my direction that makes me want to shrug, even as I laugh and get exasperated at the white clichés casually peppered all over the internet.We can all (hopefully) agree that racism is bad, but what particularly annoys me isn’t racism as such. Every attempt by people to put me in a “category” makes my skin crawl. This would be understandable if being put in any category got the same reaction. Interestingly, it doesn’t.I have come to realize that racism shocks me for all the “wrong” reasons. Raised by my white, European mother, everyday racism jars my sense of whiteness. A joke about “the Black people over there” when I sit next to a Black friend at the pub makes me look around and frown. “Are they talking about me?”White people’s view of me clashes with how I see myself. This is something that becomes apparent every time I’m in the U.S. or when I meet Americans. Every single time, the question of “where are you from?” comes up and every single time, my answer is found to be wanting. “But what are your origins?” This question, interestingly, is never asked by Europeans—we seem to understand that you can be a Black and French, or of Asian descent and British. Telling them that I’m from my city never brings up follow-up questions.

For Mixed-Race People, Is Racial Identity a Choice?

Identity is a complicated concept, and self-identification has made headlines for a while now. Gender and sexual identity are one thing, but when it comes to race and culture, can you “choose” how you self-identify?As someone who is truly on the fence, in racial terms, if I can claim whiteness, can I also switch and claim Blackness? Can I say the N-word? Can I—should I?—be annoyed at racism directed towards me, even if it is mainly because it makes me want to scream, “I’m not actually Black you idiot!”Racism is unacceptable, both white and Black people will happily tell you. What I’ve come to see as “one-colored” people will then proceed to regurgitate whatever clichés they have about “the others,” safe in the knowledge they are squarely on one side of the argument, and no doubt about it.Clichés color my own reactions too. Being called Black is associated with negative feelings. The angry, loud Black woman, but probably more importantly my father, a man I have not seen in 15 years. My relationship—or lack thereof—with my dad has absolutely nothing to do with his skin color, but associations are created whether they’re rational or not. Being called Black is calling me my father’s daughter, and that will not do.

And then someone makes a comment and I cringe.

I’m Happy as an Outsider

As neither Black nor white, I should not have to choose a camp—and most of the time, I don’t. I don’t spend any time whatsoever anymore wondering whether I’m one or the other. And then someone makes a comment and I cringe.Ultimately, I really am neither, a position that I relish. As an outsider, I enjoy being annoyed at every excuse for racism that brings up colonization and slavery, at every “victim posturing” and displacement of responsibility. This is almost as liberating as being able to climb on my high horse and look down at every self-centered comment, Eurocentric rewriting of history, complete lack of awareness of what it means to be “other” and tone-deaf defense of this or that privilege. “We went to the Bronx and OMG! I was the only white person there! So uncomfortable,” a fellow traveler recounted to me recently after a trip to New York. I have never laughed so hard. And so, I roll my eyes left, right and center. I refuse to be called Black, but when I think about it, I don’t particularly want to be called white either. White people see me as Black, and Black people see me as white. Which would tend to mean I’m Black, while thinking of myself, mainly, as white. Or the reality is somewhat simpler: I am neither.

Did you ever know you were meant to do something? Could be anything. As small as getting out of bed in the morning or as monumental as changing the world. It wasn’t hard for me to know. I’m 100 percent meant to be a performer. I have known it to be my destiny since childhood. My parents knew it, my teachers and friends, even strangers. It was never a crazy idea or a far-fetched dream. It is where my natural “God-given” talents lied. Consequently, I have been training for this career my whole life. My two parents, working full-time corporate jobs in Manhattan, made for a heavily scheduled childhood. I was never forced to do things that didn’t explicitly interest me, however. I trained in dance, piano, musical theater and sang in the choir at our church.Noticing I had an aptitude for entertainment, and that I quite enjoyed all of my extracurriculars, my mom and dad were always supportive, lending a late-night hand to practice dissonant, complex Bartok pieces with me or sit on the couch to watch whatever choreography I had learned in class that day. They, art lovers themselves, took me to the theater, to museums and the ballet. As Caribbean immigrants, they also had an expectation of ambition and dedication to excellence—something I inherited. They encouraged my every whim without indulging or coddling me through how hard it could be to hone these crafts.I am incredibly fortunate to have had the opportunities my parents worked so tirelessly to provide me. When I was about seven, I looked at my mother and said, “Mom, I’m going to be the first forensic scientist on Broadway! I’ll solve crimes in the day and make it back in time for ‘places’ in the evening!” I even went as far as landing representation and missing a lot of sixth- and seventh-grade classes to rush into the city for big auditions. Eventually, I decided I would finish school and wait to go full throttle into performing. Mom and dad agreed with my choice heartily, telling me I could be whatever I wanted to be if I put my mind to it. What they left out, knowing I’d ultimately discover it on my own, was that being Black would create unspeakable obstacles to said dreams—that no matter how good I got or how much talent I held, there would be invisible and tangible barriers that I couldn’t will or discipline away.

I Was Surrounded by White People All the Way Through College

Growing up, I spent plenty of time in predominantly white spaces. I was one of roughly five non-white students at my elementary school and, for a majority of the time, the only Black girl in my myriad of extracurriculars. Though I went to a much more integrated, inclusive high school, the “others” (students of color, international students, Black and African-American students) stuck together, for the most part.I continued my performance studies in high school, taking as many stage-related electives as possible, while juggling the regular course load. When it came time for college, I was elated. After briefly flirting with the idea of going straight into acting professionally, skipping out on getting a degree, I bargained with my folks and settled on applying to 12—yes, 12—prestigious drama schools. Soon, I received a scholarship to one of the best drama programs in the world. Ecstatic, I spent the summer fantasizing about all of the newness ahead. I was going to get to really make a go of it and would leave not only talented but qualified to do the job, having earned a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from a renowned university.My first week I called my parents to thank them for everything that had led up to this moment. Life was peachy. And so what that most of my teachers were white? Or that I was once again one of fewer than five Black students? Or that during the first year, both in theory and in practice, we focused almost entirely on white, male European or American playwrights? I had arrived!

What Being a Black Actor Is Really Like

During my first two years of training, I worked retail part-time, which was grueling and barely sustainable. I remember failing a freshman class called “alignment” not because I didn’t do the work but because I had been late more than three times. It was at 8 a.m. every Friday morning and I was at the store until after midnight every Thursday. My advisor, who was also a script analysis teacher, patronizingly asked me if it was “absolutely necessary” that I work. She proceeded to ask me about how I was paying for tuition; she was curious as to the literal amount of my scholarship. I, not thinking, told her freely and proudly. “Wow, they must’ve wanted you bad!” she responded. “Makes sense.” Off the bat, I took it as a compliment. As I mulled it over in the coming days, weeks, months and years I realized how deeply inappropriate that entire exchange was. As training progressed, things got weirder and more charged. I remember a second-year professor comparing me to Viola Davis every chance he got, advising me one day after class that “when you stop being so angry, you’ll start to work.” I cringe at these memories now, especially thinking about the amount of times the other Black girl in my year got called my name and vice versa, despite looking nothing alike (she was a whole head taller than me). Or how I felt bringing in Black playwrights. Or having to coach white kids how to say the N-word. Or what it was like to teach the instructor about certain pieces, because they’d only read heavy-hitters in African-American theatre, like the great August Wilson. It was ridiculous how tokenized the few Black actors in my year were.

One Story Is Particularly Memorable

A particular moment that stings a whole decade later takes the cake for me, though. I was doing a scene from Lynn Nottage’s Intimate Apparel in a performance technique class. My scene partner was a white girl in my group, who was also a dear friend; we’d prepared the very vulnerable scene carefully and rehearsal was filled with honest conversations about race in the U.S. at the start of the 20th century, the setting of the play. We did our version for the class and then it came time for notes. It went well! Then the teacher took a second and turned to me. “My only note for you would be to bring specificity to the physicality of this woman. She’s African-American in 1905. You know, maybe explore holding your purse in front of you?” My stomach dropped. “Stick your butt out a bit?” she suggested. She sat back expectantly, waiting on me to do it. I obliged, loathe to challenge her, proceeding with the second round of the scene. It was utterly humiliating.

Art schools are actively failing non-white students. We need teachers that look like us and we need to learn about the artists that look like us.

Black Actors Are Being Set Up to Fail

My experience in drama training was mild compared to many of the Black actors in programs similar to mine. I finished school, passing with flying colors and winning a drama department award that gave me the chance to study abroad at another reputable school in the U.K. I went on to book an off-Broadway show a week before I graduated, joined the union and got a head start. But even then, the fragility of my connections with the white faculty began to rear its head once again. Those who couldn’t handle my Blackness in class were now my bridge between the training incubator and the industry. Many of my trainers were working actors, directors, playwrights, producers, etc. They were ill-equipped to help me ride the momentum of my first big job and could only feign interest in anything less than overnight success and the clout that would bring to my alma mater. This was demoralizing and I am still working to reignite some of the passion these instances extinguished. I could talk about this for hours and write more pages. But I’ve distilled the whole experience down to a couple of key points. First, I don’t regret going to school. I’m a trained actor and that means the world to me. Second, art schools are actively failing non-white students. We need teachers that look like us and we need to learn about the artists that look like us (not only the legendary few we learn about during Black History Month). We need post-grad resources that connect us with our communities within the industry. And we need help with the colossal expense of secondary education. Some of this is finally being addressed with the gravity it deserves, but we have a long way to go. It affects who makes it and who doesn’t. Many non-white and LGBTQIA+ students quit these programs without completing training because they feel marginalized, tokenized and misunderstood. This ultimately leads to mis- and underrepresentation in the industry, leading to the same reproduced art. It all feeds into itself. While not everyone goes to school to become an artist, it’s becoming increasingly important to have the credentials and the connections these institutions afford. And yet, 20-plus years down this career path and seven years out of college, when I ask myself if it was all worth it, I hesitate.

Structural Racism in the Arts Can Affect Anyone

Writing this piece has unexpectedly torn me open—I’ve stalled a bit on the professional performance front, spending time in various day jobs, making a partial pivot to writing for the screen and stage, feeling discouraged and, for the first time in my life, doubtful of my choice. I have chalked up all of this vacillation to the fact that maybe I’m not pretty enough or not captivating enough, or that I’ve been lazy and stuck in my own way. Reading these reflections back, I am realizing that narrative is the direct result of a buildup of little traumas that have bred reluctance and demotivation. Most of all, it makes me see how insidious systemic racism (yes, that’s what it is) truly is.I am the best-case scenario of this. I am privileged enough to come from an educated, supportive middle-class family and am beyond prepared for this work. I’m set up to succeed. And even so, the powers that be, the -isms that “other” me, make success seem not only distant but impossible. I cannot imagine how the rest of us “others” have suffered in this regard. There is hope though. Because sharing this has freed me. Because like I said, I know in my bones that this is what I’m meant for. So here I am again—trying, flailing and failing. In the gutter, not just looking, but reaching for the stars.

When I started preschool, I was left-handed. The Catholic nuns who taught us immediately took my dominant hand and tied it behind my back. I was forced to grow accustomed to doing things with the “right” side, even though it felt wrong and unnatural. This was the first time the left side of me was constrained by my oppressive, right-dominant environment.Growing up, children tend to view their parents and the adults who teach them as moral exemplars of good. Even while studying their every move and hoping to please them with each action, I struggled from an extremely young age to comprehend why it felt so natural to defy my surroundings.I remember in preschool being placed in time out for choosing to sit with a Pakistani child at lunch. I remember being told that there was something “fundamentally wrong with me” for believing that people of different races and religions could be associated with each other. I remember being told I was a disrespectful daughter when I refused to use the N-word. But I especially remember the time I finally understood the term “white supremacist.”

Then the election happened.

Waking Up to White Supremacy

Up until the 2016 election, I had been surrounded by people with the same views of my parents: extremely conservative, religious and white. Religion was the basis behind everything. Mental health issues were addressed by a preacher, not a therapist. When I moved high schools, everything began to change. I made friends with people of different races and religions, and while this seems basic and a given for some people, it was earth-shattering for me. I went a full 180, from someone who was raised to believe that Muslims were terrorists, to someone whose best friend was Sunni and wore a hijab.Then the election happened. At school, I would see my friend shoved in the halls because “the new president would take care of her.” When I came home and told my parents they supported the bully. My Puerto Rican friend wept for the unknown status of her family after the hurricane while my neighbors wanted to “send her back,” despite the fact that Puerto Ricans are U.S. citizens. There was an active shooter false alarm one day while I was alone in the hallway, and no classroom would let me in a locked room. I sat in an abandoned, unlocked classroom crying, knowing that my community stood for Second Amendment rights.I got involved in activism by staging a walkout in response to the Parkland shooting in 2018. When my parents found out about what I was planning, they begged me not to do it. While they tried to stop me, I think they knew that nothing would keep me from walking out of class. After the school district found out and local news stations picked up the story, I was plagued with comments like “soap-eating communist brat” and “take her to the NRA convention in Dallas next week and I’ll deal with her.” However, my walkout was the largest in Texas, and gained immense amounts of attention.I didn’t want to stop there. Shortly after our gun violence protest, the Trump v. Hawaii decision came down and constitutionalized the Muslim ban. On top of that, the child separations at the border were beginning to take place.I decided to immerse myself in this culture, disappearing for weekends to study how detrimental these decisions were to the affected communities. The chairwoman of the Democratic Party in Texas asked me to take phone calls at the office while she was away. It just so happened that while I was the only one there, the Beto for Texas campaign staff came in and needed me to organize an entire countywide campaign within a week.Things happened pretty quickly after that. The Beto campaign created significant change in Texas and I entered some of the inner circles in the political world. As a Gen Z college student who helped bring Texas to battleground-state status and had a history with protests, I found many opportunities to bring change, and I took them. I even won awards for my work from Congress and former presidents.

Reality eventually began to hit.

How My Political Work and Family Life Collided

Reality eventually began to hit.People saw me as this model student activist with the perfect life, and my parents supported me online and through social media, but things got violent behind closed doors. One day they yelled and grabbed me, accusing me of following a dangerous path. They cut me off. The next day I hosted a campaign event with Michael Bloomberg. I remember thinking to myself, “I'm sitting across from a billionaire Democratic presidential candidate as a college student thousands of dollars in debt with no family support. How did I get here? What do I say?” I asked him a very blanket question about how he planned to redistribute wealth and solve the student debt crisis. Since then, though, I’ve had a lot more time to reflect.I decided a few months ago that I will no longer take my family’s gaslighting and manipulation. (Mind you, part of the issues were not completely ideological.) At age 18, I became completely financially independent, and due to abusive situations I had alone in the past, I now refuse to meet with them without a counselor present.Since then, I’ve been put into a lot more contrasting, prestigious situations, interning with a news agency based on Wall Street, where I’ve interviewed Anthony Scaramucci and the president of the Council on Foreign Relations Richard Hass. I’ve even helped organize a massive protest for Black Lives Matter. The plot twist is that, despite what my former community says (or doesn’t say) to me in private, it isn’t what they show other people. The reposts, the bragging about people I’ve met, the public support—all that masks to others the white supremacist behavior that they engage in behind closed doors.I know people will tell me that I need to love my family and the people I grew up with because they are close to me. I’m told all the time that we have to put politics aside. I’ve tried, but it hasn’t worked. Meeting with them with a counselor, not talking politics, agreeing to disagree—all of these solutions came to nothing. I think the real major problem is narcissism. Some people completely lack empathy for others. It’s not that they believe this or don’t believe that, it’s that they’re unwilling to listen.I don’t know where I’ll be politically in a few years. The campaigns I’m working on now have me focused just on getting to November. What I do know is, what you see is not what you get, and I will continue to expose the real problem: not the outspoken racists and evangelicals, but the ones that try to stay hidden.

For over five years, I have been working inside a police department. I am not a sworn officer, but I work with them every day. I’m also educated in their field; I know more about the history of law enforcement and the criminal justice system than the majority of the cops with whom I work. It has been no secret that I lean to the far left of politics. I am the political opposite of most of my coworkers. I have always been able to get along and be professional. I mostly stay out of political conversations. When those conversations happen around me, I know that it is often meant to get me to react, so I simply don't give them what they want.I have witnessed a lot of the stereotypical microaggressions you would expect from cops that they would deny. Sexism, bigotry, racism, classism: They are guilty of all of it. When confronted, they usually excuse it as "blowing off steam" or "dark humor" because their jobs are so stressful. I've worked with some of the most heinous cases: child abuse, forcible rape, domestic violence, homicide, suicide. I see many the same horrors they do because I am often on the scene with them as a first responder.

Racism and Sexism Plagues Police Departments

A couple of months ago, shortly after the murder of George Floyd, a friend of mine posted an article supporting law enforcement—the "we aren't all bad guys" type of essay. I commented that self-proclaimed good cops needed to speak out against the corrupt ones, that their silence and hiding behind their thin blue line made things worse. I said that there are evil and racist cops in every agency. Not ten minutes after I made these comments, a supervising officer sent me a text message on my personal phone berating me for my comments. He said there are no corrupt or racist cops in our agency, that I should be ashamed for implying so and that he would be informing the chief of police about what I said.I told him I would stand by and explain my words if asked. He confronted me about who I thought was racist and corrupt in our department and, at that point, I decided the conversation had gone far enough. I know cops well enough that he was trying to set me up. You see, I'd already had multiple conversations with other officers in the department who mentioned in informal counseling sessions alleged corruption, but exposing those confidential conversations would not only risk their careers but possibly their lives. Those officers didn’t know enough details to make an official report. And the supervisor I was speaking to? One of the most racist people in the department. It’s not hard to understand why he took my comment so personally.Almost immediately, officers I had long-standing, good relationships with blocked me on social media and refused to take my work-related calls. Some even stopped referring clients to me. Luckily I'm very good at my job and noticed immediately what was going on. I confronted a few officers who claimed it was merely an oversight. The atmosphere inside the department was tense but manageable.

Police Officers Deny Racism and Law Enforcement Are Connected

About a month later, I was pulled into an internal affairs investigation as a witness and grilled about who I suspected was racist and corrupt in our department. This lasted for two hours. I had no attorney and no other type of representation present. They said I did not need anyone because I was a witness and not subject of the investigation.COVID-19 protocols were still in effect, and since I am high-risk due to a heart condition, I wore a mask. I was in a small office with an internal affairs sergeant sitting less than three feet from me. He was not wearing a mask and reeked of cigarette smoke—he laughed at me and said I could take my mask off. I didn't; it seemed to annoy him.I told him I did not know about any specific incidents of corruption but had witnessed multiple racial and bigoted statements over the years. I also presented him with a particular incident involving a sergeant. I did not see the event myself but heard other staff gossiping and laughing about how it was "so racist." I explained why I felt this was a department-wide problem. At the end of the interview, he told me, "You understand we have to investigate when someone uses the word 'corruption' towards our department in public, or we look corrupt." Internal affairs investigations aren't public information, they aren't even internal department-wide information, so I found that statement really odd.

I Was Punished for Acknowledging Police Racism

A few weeks after this interview, my access to our internal information system was revoked. I've had access to this system the entire time I have worked in the building, and the position has had access for over 20 years. I was given no notice. I was locked out for a week before receiving a curt email from a lieutenant that for “security reasons” I could no longer have access. Revoking access has been detrimental to my ability to my job. I lost all access to client information and history, creating safety and treatment plans. I believe this was all done in retaliation for my social media comments, and because I’m very supportive of local protests and reallocating some of the department's budget to social-based services. I've spoken at city council meetings and work closely with our local Black Lives Matter group to give them insight on how law enforcement operates locally.What’s worse to me is that I am not the only person in the department who feels this way: There are probably a half-dozen officers and records staff who are also politically left, supporting BLM and justice system reform. Most are too afraid to say anything because they don't want to deal with the harassment that would come down from the majority. Our Black officers probably have it the worst. I've spoken to them privately to check in and see how they are doing, and many say they have learned to just be quiet and do the best they can as professionals. It is highly toxic and despite knowing this, I have chosen to stay. I know my role within the department is extremely rare and the work I do is the type of work police reform advocates are calling to be increased.

The Cop Mentality Is to Serve and Protect Other Cops

If I’ve learned one thing in my time working behind the blue line, cops will almost always be for other cops. I’ve held up countless examples of police brutality to coworkers and the response is usually: "I wasn’t there so I can’t say what I would have done in that cop’s shoes." Even the most blatant of abuse of power is met with a reluctance to say anything critical about another officer.Cop mentality is a real thing; anything that challenges their power or threatens their livelihood is met with resistance and, as we've witnessed at protests across the country, sometimes violence. There’s a general contempt for the public they are supposed to serve. Some people might wonder if it's just this one department, but I assure you it is not. I've attended countless trainings and conferences with police officers; they almost all have the same mentality and outliers are ostracized. Any department with a high turnover rate of new young officers is not due to money or because the job is hard. It’s because new officers went into the field thinking they would be helping people, and, after months of field training, realized what they actually got themselves into. The ones who want to help people usually don't last. The ones who wanted to become cops for power and authority stay.The "thin blue line" is not about protecting the public from the evil people. It's a shield that's between the public and police officers. It's symbol of solidarity between cops, not with their communities. It's them versus everyone else. And that's the truth.

When you're a parent, you hope that your child will come to you if they’re distressed or have a problem they can’t handle alone. When my daughter, Sam, was colicky, thrashing and wailing, I quieted her with bottled milk, or walked her up and down the hallway singing "September Song" so much that I actually learned how to sing it on key (fudging for my half-an-octave-and-a-prayer range). When she pooped in her diaper, my wife and I wiped her butt—and then when she kept pooping in her diaper for years, refusing to learn how to use the toilet with a cheery, steadfast, beautiful smile, I continued to wipe her butt. I taught her to read by writing the names of superheroes on a whiteboard (she'd cheat by recognizing the hyphen in X-Men, though sometimes I'd trip her up with Spider-Man). When she was randomly terrified of Count Duckula, we comforted her. And when she was more rationally afraid of her new high school, we comforted her then, too. That's what you do when you're a parent. You're there to help.At some point, though, your child stops wanting your help all the time. She may not, hypothetically, want you to drive her to the Walgreen’s to pick up contraceptives for her. She might say something like, "No, dad, I will walk." She may roll her eyes when she returns and you ask if it went okay. She may also, it turns out, not tell you that she's experiencing serious depression. Or that she's questioning her gender identity and is trans.

That's what you do when you're a parent. You're there to help.

You Don’t Always Realize How Fast Your Daughter Is Growing Up

We weren't totally out of the loop. We knew that remote learning—sitting in front of a screen for eight hours a day—was making her anxious and depressed. We also knew she was experimenting with gender expression. She was wearing make-up and eyeliner and necklaces, and presenting more femme, especially when her new significant other came over. Still, we weren’t the ones she confided in.Instead, she confided in Angela, that new significant other. They started dating over the summer, mostly over text and FaceTime, while we lived in our COVID fallout shelters. In the evening, Sam would disappear for hours—we'd hear her voice chattering along from her basement room, giggling or dramatically expostulating (Sam's an actor, and a truly spectacular dramatic expostulator). All is well, we thought. Young love! Hooray!Alas, all was not exactly well. A lot of what Sam and Angela were talking about was depression, anxiety and gender dysphoria. Sam had figured out she was a trans girl and Angela figured out they were non-binary. Even though Sam knew we’d be fine with her coming out as trans (we'd told her so). (Parents! Tell your kids you will accept them if they're trans!) It's still a big step, and she was nervous about admitting it to us and to herself. Being locked in the house for months without being able to see friends or travel to France (she had a trip scheduled) didn't help either. It was only when she started cutting her bicep with a pocket knife that she was scared enough to tell us what was happening.

It was only when she started cutting her bicep with a pocket knife that she was scared enough to tell us what was happening.

When Your Daughter Grows Up, It’s Natural for Them to Confide in Others

While we were being clueless and largely useless, Angela was her support structure. The details of that support structure are a little fuzzy from my perspective, since I wasn't privy to any of their conversations. I've barely spoken a dozen sentences to Angela at this point, though they’ve been to the house (wearing a mask) a couple of times. Mostly, they pass by us fairly quickly, pausing only to try to win over our Siamese kitten. (The first couple of times the kitten ran from them, but Angela has successfully wooed it by cooing and rustling plastic bags.)Like the kitten, I don't know Angela well. They haven't even tried to court me with rustling plastic. But I do know that whenever my daughter gets to see them or even talk to them, her depression lifts. I know that when we took Sam to the hospital for suicidal ideation, and were up until four in the morning, Angela was on the phone with her as late as my daughter wanted them to be, offering a lot more practical help than the doctors did. (Mental health care in this country is generally not good, and the mental health care we received did not break that mold. That's another story. But it was horrible.)

Part of Letting Kids Grow Up Is Losing Them to Others

According to hallowed tradition and a lot of sitcoms, parents are supposed to hate and resent their child's significant other. This is mostly about hating and resenting the fact that your kids grow up and have sex. But it's also about being sad that you aren't the primary support structure for your child anymore. At one time, the child needed you to roll her around the neighborhood, and stuff her with Cheerios to keep her quiet. And then, one day, she crawls out of the stroller, grows up and takes those Cheerios with her own paw. Or, worse, she turns around and asks someone else to get Cheerios for her.That new, designated Cheerios retriever is by definition going to be something of a stranger. Children find their own friends. Becoming an adult is, in part, the process of determining the people with whom you want to share your problems before bringing them to your parents. As parents, you're bound to resent those other problem solvers. But you also have to be grateful to them. After all, the greatest kindness a stranger can do is love someone that you care about better than you're able to love them yourself.

People love to hate teachers’ unions. “They protect lazy teachers! They don’t care about kids! They strike willy-nilly over minor issues, like teacher pay and safety. And when they’re on strike, who is going to teach the students?!”That’s why, supposedly, charter schools are awesome; they’re not unionized, so teachers can’t strike. They have to be bright-eyed and put their bushy tails to the grindstone or they’re fired.My daughter attended one of those utopian, under-unionized charter high schools, where the administration set the standard to flood every inch of the school with excellence. But by her senior year, the promise of excellence did not flood. In fact, it oozed like the brown gunk from the broken water fountains. And the only standards met were high levels of misery. With weak unions in place, the administration could do as they wished—ruining the academic year in their wake.

Why would they do that? We all wanted to know but, legally, they were not supposed to discuss it.

School Administration Unjustifiably Fired the Arts Department Head

The charter school divided its day between academic and art instruction. Academic teachers were unionized, but arts instructors were not and were paid quite poorly. Turnover numbers were brutally high.Nonetheless, the teachers were dedicated, and my daughter learned a lot in her art program. She also benefited from her teachers’ connections. With the help of her instructors, she was even awarded a prestigious grant to create art.All the great things about her program were orchestrated by the department head, who was a beacon of light. She was supportive, kind, engaged, accessible and a tireless advocate. She pushed the reluctant administration to open gender-neutral bathrooms for trans kids. She encouraged students to write and perform material that resonated with them, even if it included the occasional curse word. She was adept and appreciated.But midway through the year, the administration fired her. Why would they do that? We all wanted to know but, legally, they were not supposed to discuss it. One admin, however, tried to justify the situation to a bunch of angry parents. The best they could come up with was a vague explanation that the department head allowed the students too much creative freedom. How? She let them put on a performance that included a (pretend) exploding penis. My daughter saw the performance and thought it was pretty funny. The exploding penis didn’t frighten or offend her. Young, creative students at an arts high school should be allowed to talk and laugh about exploding penises! The administration thought differently. Creative input from students was a danger, they decided. When she was fired, morale sank—and then, it sank some more. Other teachers left. Replacements weren’t qualified to teach the classes. Classroom instruction ground to a halt. Whole days went by when my daughter sat in class with substitutes, doing nothing, learning nothing, watching her life drain away like the sludge from the water fountain (which the administration was also not fixing). Their abrupt decision to sack a beloved teacher and uproot an entire department was shocking. But if you are a person who has ever worked anywhere, it should have a familiar ring.

There has been pushback at the school. Both parents and students were horrified.

The Art Teachers Voted to Unionize to Protect Their Work Environment

Authority figures in the workplace sometimes treat their staff with arbitrary, callous cruelty. They change things just to change things. They try to manage appearances in an effort to feel like they’re useful, even when putting their two cents in impedes the workflow. A work environment where those at the top can do whatever they want is often one where those at the top do a lot of egregiously foolish things.Toxic workplaces are bad in and of themselves, but they’re even worse when they’re supposed to be safe and welcoming for students.My daughter’s charter school is supposed to encourage kids to be creative and model respect for artists and art. Instead, in this last year, students saw every day that their art mentors were paid poorly, overworked and clearly disrespected. Their creativity and expertise were discounted and their ideas and input were trivialized. The administration couldn’t have made it clearer that they saw artists as a barrier and impediment to arts education.There has been pushback at the school. Both parents and students were horrified. The administration, which somehow hadn’t anticipated retaliation for randomly firing one of the most-loved figures in the school, scrambled. Some key staff was forced out. Many promises were made to parents and students about improved accountability.But the most important change was that the art teachers voted to unionize.It’s unclear what will happen with the school going forward. Most of the administrators who ruined my daughter’s senior year are still in place. The teaching staff is still in chaos. Many of my daughters’ favorite instructors may not come back to the school. Rebuilding will probably take years, at least, and the department may well never be what it once was. But a union can at least force the administration to treat teachers with a modicum of respect. It can get better pay and reduce turnover. It can force the administration to be transparent in its hiring and firing decisions. It can create a more stable school environment.Young people need to see that their ideas, their individuality and their labor are valued. Students don’t benefit when the people responsible for teaching them and mentoring them are treated like disposable cogs. A regimented environment, in which those at the top have absolute discretion and those at the bottom live in constant fear, doesn’t build character or creativity.At the very least, teachers’ unions show students that workers can and should have power and dignity. The presence of a union is not enough in itself to create a strong, healthy school environment, but it's a start.

When most Americans travel to escape their day-to-day life, they bury themselves in exclusive resorts, world-class dining and exotic locations. My first international trip, on the other hand, took place in an impoverished area of the densest city on Earth. For four months, I lived with an urban poor family whose income was $20 per day. I experienced metropolitan Manila as few Americans ever will: from the fringes of society, where I learned valuable lessons about materialism, gratitude, resilience and where to find fulfillment. Officially, I was a tourist, at least according to my visa, but my time in the Philippines was not a vacation. I arrived there to complete a requirement for my undergraduate degree: to live, study and volunteer for a semester in an urban poor international location. I chose Manila because of the tropical weather and my vague familiarity with the culture, which came via a Filipino mentor and friends.

It was an awakening.

My Foreign Study Program Landed Me in a Dubious Living Situation

The school I was enrolled with had no official presence in the country, save for a site facilitator. This person was a local who arranged housing and an internship. The site facilitator organized a legally dubious living arrangement, where I sublet a room for $150 per month (about 7,000 Philippine pesos) from a family of five. The home I lived in had been converted into two rental spaces. My host family occupied one section, containing a tiny living room, two bedrooms, one bathroom and a kitchen that could fit one person at a time. The family could only afford one bedroom, so the other remained empty. The property owner left for his familial province before finding another tenant, which made the room available to me. I technically had no legal right to rent the room from my host family but was given no other choice. The room was sparsely furnished: a single twin bed and one small, unfinished wood desk. The floor was smooth concrete with a burgundy coating. I slept on a pancake mattress beneath a window without glass or a screen, giving easy access for mosquitos to feast on my blood. The ceiling was split at the center and transformed into an inverted geyser during daily rain showers. I did not have hot water, clean drinking water from the faucets, access to a refrigerator or Wi-Fi. I struggled with the inaccessibility to amenities I had taken for granted.Stripped of the usual comforts, I questioned what made my life enjoyable. This dilemma framed my time in the Philippines, spurring a painful revaluation.

Seeing Poverty Up Close Shook My World

My experience with locals was a big factor in my transformation. Thanks to all of the charity television commercials I’d seen portraying the poorest people in the world as also the unhappiest, I expected to see defeated faces. It was a shock to see a jubilant populace. Those I befriended lived in conditions unfathomable for most Americans. Many were squatters who lived in makeshift homes on land they did not own and lived in constant fear of eviction. Their homes were built with corrugated metal and thin plywood. Few could access clean drinking water. Yet the crushing weight of poverty failed to exterminate their dreams or joy. I mostly remember bad puns, jokes about how I couldn’t handle the humidity and impromptu dancing and singing. I learned that economic models only predict people’s material disposition but fail to capture the radiance of the human spirit. Although I was floored by their determined positivity, poverty still inflicts a toll. I recall brimming with tears over dinner one night as my host mother—a strong woman in her late 40s—talked about her eldest child’s goal of becoming a doctor. She admitted that such lofty ambitions were expensive, and they could not afford the schooling. It broke my heart to watch a parent soberly explain how unlikely it is her child will achieve their dreams.To have poverty’s devastating effects explained over a dimly lit dinner table by a mother struggling to make ends meet made it tangible. I felt the finality in her words and was confronted with the monster lingering at the end of optimism: defeat. The reality that snuffs out dreams and robs ambition. Despite feeling the weight of her fears, I understood that I could never completely grasp her struggle.I carried the privilege of being a temporary visitor. After just four months, I would return home to Southern California —a wealthy enclave in one of the richest countries on Earth. Compared to the people I built relationships with in Manila, I was the one percent.Returning home, I struggled to integrate my experiences. The enormity of inequality stunned me. It felt unfair that my Manila friends would likely never have the access to wealth, amenities or infrastructure the way I do. Countering those thoughts was the understanding that my friends were making the most of life. That dissonance uncovered a critical truth: Life may present immovable obstacles, but fulfillment can be had anywhere.

The enormity of inequality stunned me.

I Brought the Lessons I Learned in the Philippines Home With Me

As a younger millennial living in fraught times, I often think about what brings my life fullness. I learned long ago that wealth is only a part of the answer. While wealth alleviates stressors that make life unenjoyable, I’m convinced that fullness of life cannot be achieved solely through economic means—there is fulfillment attainable only through intangible things that are harder to count. Squatting in the Philippines for four months with an urban poor family proved that to me. I felt it walking through flooded streets with my friends after a trip to the mall, in conversations after dinner with my host mother, in the compassion extended when I sought help from strangers. Manila is many things. For me, it was an awakening.

I am a woman about to embark on her role as a prison officer in a female estate, who sees my position as an opportunity to help some of the most vulnerable members of society. Locked away from families and society, prisoners often lose faith in humanity and do not see the point in living. It terrifies me to think of officers punishing prisoners when imprisonment is punishment enough. To the best of my capability, I would love to regain their trust in humanity and authority figures. But here’s the problem.Whilst I will be trying to help inmates conquer certain addictions, I will be harboring my own addiction. I even have a support network to help me battle it, but prisoners are cast away from any support they may have on the outside. Today, I was assigned my key worker, a prisoner who I will mentor. She is a drug addict who has been put on methadone as part of the transition period away from substance abuse. During my motivational speeches about combatting addictions, lingering at the back of my mind will be the blatant truth: Addictions are almost unbelievably challenging to combat, especially as other prisoners catalyze and surge each other's addictions. While I will be trying to help inmates stop reoffending and abide by the law, I will continue to break the law myself. I break laws knowing that white and pretty privilege will diminish my chances of getting caught, but many prisoners have experienced the opposite.In this respect, I believe that I am abusing my power.But I’m going to change. So I wanted to reflect on my experiences with law enforcement.

While I will be trying to help inmates abide by the law, I will continue to break the law myself.

I Have Committed Crimes and Escaped Consequences

I was 19 years old, reeking of immaturity and insecurity, completely out of my depth at a party with a group of older boys who were about to pick up cocaine. Staring at my watch, I mustered some excuse about driving home for dinner. Seven Coronas down, I forced myself to believe this was a good idea. I needed to drive to my godmother’s house to safety. So I called her, trying to sound as sober as possible, and revved the engine.Ten minutes later, I crashed into a wall on the bend. Fight-or-flight mode was triggered in my body, and the adrenaline pushed me to keep driving across the field and out a gateway. I kept driving until I hit another wall, then drove backward to destroy another wall. On my third wall, fumes and alarms were exploding out of the car, attracting the neighbors. A man dressed in his nightgown started shouting and called the police. I started guzzling any water I could find in and out of the car, even puddles. The police arrived at this remote location in the countryside two hours later. With extraordinary luck, I was bang on the limit when breathalyzed. My license and criminal record were clean.Now I’m 23 years old, fresh from part one of prison officer training. I use my typical method when confronted by a train conductor without a ticket. Yes, that’s right, I have lost my wallet so have no identification to give you, but you can send the fine in the post. So I give them my fake name with my fake address and fake number. But Swiss German train conductors do not tolerate lawbreakers and will actively seek them out. Part of their role is to march suspects with potential fraudulent identities over to the police station in Zurich Hauptbahnhof. I am pounced on by the conductors around 15 minutes away from the station. So I have oodles of time to consider and devise an escape. Part of me thinks they are just threatening me and they won’t actually take me to the police. I’m not sure if this is sheer positivity or naivety. Part of me considers running away as soon as we get off the train. But as we disembark, I’m surrounded by four tall and presumably fast-paced men and women.As they escort me to the police station, I realize I’m at the end of my tether. They run the fake identity through the system, confirm my lie and start threatening huge fines and potential prison time. I give them my real identity and pay the fine. They are all staring at me in disgust—the last employment they expect from me is their own field of employment. I feel utterly humiliated. I, too, am a law enforcer, just a hypocritical one.

Imagine an inmate locked up in prison for theft discovering that I, their officer, steal on a regular basis.

Why Should Prisoners Trust Me if I Break the Law?

These experiences, coinciding with my training, have forced me to think carefully about my role in justice, criminality and law. As citizens, we are forced to trust law enforcers. Even after multiple crimes from gross abuse of power by enforcers, like the murder of George Floyd and the rape and murder of Sarah Everard, we still do not have a choice. Recent studies show that “more than 1,000 police officers and staff accused of domestic abuse are still serving in law enforcement.” So unsurprisingly, many Black people do not feel protected or safe around the police. Many women, including myself, now feel threatened when approached by a policeman in London. But without law enforcers, society would collapse into anarchy. But with law enforcers who break the laws, what do we expect? Anarchy. Now, let’s go into prison. Nearly half of U.K. adults will reoffend within a year after their release from prison. This statistic stems from multiple reasons: gangs, limited employment options for ex-criminals, addiction and low self-esteem, to name just a few. But a common thread that weaves through all these issues is a mistrust of people, particularly people of authority. Often, this mistrust can develop even more in prison from the officers themselves. A prison officer is bullying an inmate with verbal and physical abuse. The “infallibility” of that officer means that they can act this way unpunished. When prisoners see officers abusing their power, and maybe thriving off their position of “superiority,” it can generate anger and abandonment of hope. The prisoner will inevitably leave prison thinking that the justice system is unjust, which often leads to reoffending. Now, I am not a law enforcer who murders or bullies, but I’m still part of the problem. Imagine an inmate locked up in prison for theft discovering that I, their officer, steal on a regular basis. They would feel angry, violated and diminished. What hope or incentive do they have to stop? Thinking that you can get away with these activities with luck? Or worse, knowing that the reason I have not been charged for stealing may well be my white privilege? The soft crime that I commit abuses the system that everyone has to believe in: that law enforcers obey the law. It sparks such anger in people because those who act above the law make a mockery of the system most of the public has to oblige by. Look at the public reaction to Boris Johnson’s lockdown parties and Prince Andrew walking free following pedophilia accusations. Pure fury.I can no longer play a part in this injustice, so I am going to try to be a law enforcer who obeys the law. For so many years, I have assigned my impulsive behaviors, like stealing, to a lack of free will. But it’s time to confront this addiction. It is my duty to tackle it. If can’t, how do I expect my inmates to? And if I do not obey the law, then why should they have to obey me?

I was 8 years old when I had my first glimpse of the American dream. High School Musical aired on the Disney Channel for the first time in Latin America in 2006. The combination of music, Gabriella and Troy’s love story and the showcasing of life of students in a developed country marked me. The musical became a safe haven that projected my ideal life as a young woman and as a student. I learned the choreography, the songs and dialogue. For some people, exercise puts them in a good mood; for me, the musical worked in a similar way. I watched the movies often, as if it were my religion and my source of endorphins.Back then, English was a strange language to my ears. The High School Musical soundtrack wasn’t dubbed into Spanish, so when I had to sing along, I wouldn’t feel super confident pronouncing, “We’re all in this together.” By the end of the movie, though, I knew I wanted to study in the United States, for three reasons: to speak English like in the songs, to have decent classrooms and to find myself a Troy Bolton.

I thought that dream was over when my parents told me they could not afford an education in the U.S.

I Dreamed Big—and Came Up Short

Dreaming of high school in the U.S. wasn’t enough. Hollywood made me want to pursue higher education in America too. Having watched Legally Blonde and Accepted, I knew university in America would be more prestigious than in my home country. By the time High School Musical 2 was released the following year, I felt confident about my English proficiency. This time around, I challenged myself to watch the movie in English without subtitles. In my heart, I felt as if I was getting closer to making my dream come true. However, my high school graduation date was fast approaching, and I had yet to finalize any paperwork to transfer to the U.S. I thought that dream was over when my parents told me they could not afford an education in the U.S. After all, my parents' salaries were $1,000 a month, which did not even cover our expenses. And they didn’t want to send me on a tourist visa. As the oldest child, I have always had to give a good example and abide by the rules. I was not going to get a tourist visa that I would overstay. Neither did I continue asking for a dream that my parents couldn’t afford. In my heart, I felt as if higher education was my last opportunity to study abroad. Moreover, I had done plenty of research about scholarships for Latin American students. One TOEFL exam and over 20 scholarship applications later, I put my dream on pause. Every single scholarship application was rejected. I felt as if no one believed in my skills and goals. However, I got an admission letter from a local college that had some American professors on campus. It was not exactly my dream, but it was the closest thing.

My Plans Took an Unexpected Turn

I met my college sweetheart at the beginning of my junior year—a not-so-tall Latin American guy who went to the gym more often than he went to class. I knew he was no Troy Bolton, but I felt in a rush to get over having the first boyfriend, as if it were a box I had to check off before graduation. Right before winter break, I saw a flyer hanging on the monthly bulletin that said, “Apply to study abroad in Florida.” I didn’t need to continue reading. I was sold on the headline alone. Three weeks later, I received an email from the provost of my university at home congratulating me on my application. A few tears dropped down my cheek as I read the letter of acceptance. In December, I packed my bags and flew to West Palm Beach. Almost 12 years after seeing my first American movie, I had finally made it to American soil as an exchange student. I was walking in the same hallways I had seen in movies. Everything from the cafeteria to the classrooms looked as marvelous as it did on-screen. I had the option to choose what I wanted to have for lunch: It could be a salad, a burger or both, because the cafeteria served buffet-style. Oh, Americans go big or don’t go at all. The amount of food served daily was insane. My school cafeteria could have fed a city back home. Three weeks into the spring semester, I had met eyes with an Australian who would later become my Troy Bolton. I had this weird connection whenever we crossed looks. One day, he sat down next to me at the cafe, and we quickly started chatting. After our conversation, I called my then-boyfriend who studied back home and broke up with him. I knew our relationship had been deteriorating, and distance was taking its toll on him. Plus, I was looking forward to further exploring my connection with the Australian student.

I could not believe my dream would only last six months. One semester was not enough. I longed for a lifetime.

I Got to Live My American Dream—if Only for a Little While

Life in America was not always as it was shown in the movies. For one, my roommates suffered from weird mood swings and craved drama 24/7. Drama was a trend that I dare say applied to all American students. Right before midterms, my roommate was tased in the mouth by her best friend. The police came to my campus multiple times. The normality of life is something that was impossible to not miss. At home, people were warmer, welcoming and good-hearted. If I could merge the hospitality of my people with the American facilities, real life would be like in High School Musical.By the end of the semester, I had high grades, an American bank account, friends from all over the world and an Australian boyfriend. It had been the best six months I have ever lived thus far. I felt the urge to stay in West Palm Beach with the love of my life. For the first time, I developed the feeling of belonging to a magical place filled with love from those close to me. I could not believe my dream would only last six months. One semester was not enough. I longed for a lifetime. I wish I could live in the spring of 2017 forever. To this date, I still look back to that period of time that encompassed my happiest memories. I lived my own version of High School Musical, except my version was a college edition with a Spotify playlist entitled “West Palm Beach Feels,” featuring music by Lostboycrow and LANY. I became enamored with the city; for that reason, leaving was tough. My scholarship only covered a semester. I had to go back home and finish school there.Although my body was physically in Latin America, a piece of me stayed in West Palm Beach. I graduated at home and maintained a four-year long-distance relationship. I revisited the city with my Australian boyfriend in 2020 before the pandemic hit. Needless to say, my love for the place was still intact.

Working in campaign politics, I hear a lot about “the American Dream.” It’s a popular phrase for politicians to use in speeches and ads in order to conjure up warm, fuzzy feelings about rags-to-riches success and pulling yourself up by your bootstraps. But what is the American Dream, really?

The American Dream Can Be Defined in Many Ways

The American Dream is both iconic and elusive. Though it is a famed ideal, its definition is rather vague and subjective. Traditionally, it refers to a person’s ability to come from any background and rise above their struggles, ultimately achieving success because of their hard work and the freedoms and opportunities afforded them in America. Stereotypically, the emphasis is materialistic—working hard so you can own a nice home with a white picket fence in the suburbs, for instance.While there is nothing wrong or evil about defining the American Dream as simply achieving a successful career and material wealth, I believe the true meaning cannot be encapsulated in such a narrow frame. It is so much bigger, broader and better than that. The American Dream is not as shallow as the rest of the world or Hollywood or even politicians make it out to be. It is the American Dream that brings hopeful immigrants to the U.S., inspires first-generation college students to press on and earn their degrees and gives a single mother the fortitude to work three jobs to give her children a better life. As I mentioned above, I’ve had the privilege of working in campaign politics for the past several years. My resume includes work for the Republican Party, for right-leaning organizations and for conservative candidates. I have worked on local, congressional, gubernatorial and presidential races and have experience in grassroots organizing all the way up to campaign management. It is a whirlwind lifestyle, not for the faint of heart, but I love it. I’ve spent my last several years traveling the country, working for inspiring candidates, talking to voters on both sides of the aisle and getting to know the volunteers who are fighting for their beliefs and way of life. It is these people—people I agree with and people I disagree with, people in my political party and people on the opposite side of the spectrum—who helped me see that the American Dream is so much bigger than one individual or even one definition. The American Dream is transcendent, stretching through time and place, lasting from era to era—and the American people taught me that.Through talking to hundreds of Americans along the campaign trail, I have realized my American Dream is intertwined with the dreams of the people I have met. The stories I have heard are impressed on my heart forever and will guide my future endeavors.

The American Dream is not as shallow as the rest of the world or Hollywood or even politicians make it out to be.

I’ve Spoken With People From All Walks of Life About What the American Dream Means to Them

I met people like Marvin from the East Coast, whose skeletal frame was covered by beautiful ebony skin and whose smile always stretched ear to ear. His only method of transport was a bicycle or the kindness of a friend. He rode his bicycle to meet our team on Saturday mornings and weekday afternoons so that he could knock on doors and talk to voters about the candidates he supported. One time, he biked 36 miles round trip to attend a rally in a city nearby. He was well loved by both the local county party members and campaign staff, who gave him rides, bought him lunches and nominated him for volunteer of the week. As I got to know Marvin, I learned that he was one of very few in his family and community who voted Republican but that he was passionate about electing conservatives because he cared about his community and believed smaller government offered the best long-term solutions for low-income and minority communities. His American Dream was seeing his community rise out of hardship and into opportunity.Then there was Katherine, who lived out West. She was single, in her mid-60s and had several adult children. She was a contrarian at first, but once she found out I would listen to her and respect her point of view, she became one of my most consistent and dedicated volunteers. She was lonely but kind. She occasionally invited me over to her small home for tea or dinner, wanting to make me feel comfortable in a new state. As I got to know her, I learned that she was disappointed in herself because her children didn’t see the world the way that she did and she felt that she had failed them. She explained that she was volunteering because she wanted to preserve the ideals of freedom, faith and family for her children, even if they didn’t recognize the value of those things. She prayed over them constantly. Her mother’s heart was the genesis of her American Dream: a better life for her children.And in the Deep South, I had the privilege of meeting Ling, Ana and Johanka, who were all immigrants from communist nations. At a meet and greet one day, they were able to share about the horrors they had witnessed and experienced under communism. They were from different nations—China, Chile and the Czech Republic—but their stories were similar. They agreed that America is, as in Reagan’s words, the “last best hope of man on earth.” America to them was the place people could flee to when all else was crumbling. They spoke lovingly of our nation, claiming it was a symbol of hope and the promise of a better life for people around the world. It is a place of solace for those “tired…poor…huddled masses yearning to breathe free” as is inscribed on Lady Liberty. To them, the American Dream meant the promise of freedom, opportunity and new beginnings.I got to know many high school and college-age volunteers and interns like Madeline, who was concerned about her future if America continued down the path it was on. She was a prelaw student who was concerned about protecting her rights to think and speak freely, dream big, assemble for causes she believed in and pursue happiness. Her American Dream was to become who she wanted to be and create a future she believed in, uninfluenced by an oppressive government or educational bias.One day, a man named Hank walked into our office and asked if we could help him register to vote, even though he had served a felony sentence. It was a privilege to be able to tell him yes and assist him in the process. Seeing the smile on his face was priceless, and helping him fill out the paperwork made me feel like I was helping to restore just a little bit of his dignity. Before he left, Hank shared with me that he was passionate about freedom of speech and concerned about the censorship he was seeing both online and in the public square. He was excited to get to cast his vote for candidates he felt would protect that right. His American Dream was getting to contribute to his community again, thanks to the nation of second chances.And there was also Peter, a retired farmer and businessman who dedicated himself full time to our cause. He celebrated his 80th birthday during the campaign and still knocked on doors, organized events, set up meetings and trained volunteers. He was invested for many reasons—the desire to preserve values he held dear, the need to protect his children and grandchildren’s future and the hope he felt when he heard our candidate speak about a unified state and nation. Peter could have been enjoying a blissful retirement on his farm, enjoying time with his friends and loved ones, but instead, he fought selflessly with us in the trenches. His American Dream was to leave an honorable legacy for his family and his community.

I dream that we can course correct before it is too late and that I can contribute to the cause of securing a better future for my fellow Americans.

We Don’t All Have the Same American Dream—That’s OK

While yes, I am a conservative, I had the chance to speak to many liberal voters along the campaign trail too. Surprisingly, when we seem more polarized than ever, folks on both sides of the political spectrum seemed to have a similar sense of what the American Dream meant. A brighter tomorrow for their children. More equality and justice for their neighbors. A more unified nation. We all want Americans to survive and thrive. Sacrifice. Hope. Pursuit of a better future. Those seemed to be common threads in every story I heard. And what is my American Dream? Well, it’s ever evolving. The people I have met along the way—along with their stories, hearts and dreams—have become intertwined with mine. Ultimately, I dream of a better America that is in line with the ideals contained in our founding documents. We have made so much progress throughout the years, but at the same time, we have also lost sight of the value of many of our freedoms and the importance of preserving our unique system of governance. I dream that we can course correct before it is too late and that I can contribute to the cause of securing a better future for my fellow Americans. I’m so glad we’re not all working toward the same dream of that white picket fence around a house in the suburbs. Instead, we are all working to better ourselves and our society in our own way. No, we don’t always agree on what is best for America’s future or how changes should be brought about or who is responsible for making the needed improvements. But if we all agreed, not only would it be monotony; the end result would be tyranny.Our dreams might sometimes clash, propelling us in different directions, but it seems to me there is another way to look at it. The way that our dreams interact with one other, instead of seeming hostile, can be seen as iron sharpening iron. Our dreams can work together to help us collectively create the better future—that “more perfect Union”—we are all seeking. My American Dream is simply to be a part of that beautiful and painstaking process of creating a better tomorrow for all of us.