“Keep an eye on her,” I heard as I walked through the store.
I wasn’t in New Paltz with the familiar little shops where everyone knew
everyone and knew where everything was. I was in the city. It seemed huge to me
at the time, maybe because I was so little.
I heard that same phrase again as I’d walk through the
aisles of clothing and Knick knacks. Had I done something wrong?
I kept trudging through the store in my big puffy winter
coat, which I always though made me look like a marshmallow, and my winter hat.
It was freezing out and my mom would never let me out into the cold without
being bundled up.
My naivety had led me to believe the word was just as
accepting as New Paltz. It was not. I was nearing the jewelry because it always
amazed me how beautifully it glistened. That’s when reality hit me. The manager
of the store came up to me asking to see what was in my pockets.
I was 13.
My body filled with fear and rage. Afraid I would get in
trouble for nothing but anger because I knew I had done nothing wrong. I could
feel my face getting hot and my sharp tongue ready to tell this manager how I
really felt. However my mom came to my rescue. The mere sight of her made them
ease their tense glares at me waiting for me to pull an incriminating object
out of my pocket.
“Everything alright over here?” it was like my association
to my mother is what set me free. The manager immediately said “yes” and walked
away.
That’s the day I realized I was going to be judged because
of my skin.
I had to be aware of how I dressed and how I presented
myself because I could not get away with some of the things people of lighter
color could.
And it’s sad.
My mom would not understand. Why I’d have to get up extra
early so wet my hair every morning so it would get the perfect curl, or why id
stay up an extra 3 hours just to straighten my hair. Why no matter how cold it
is, if I’m in a store I cannot keep my hands in my pockets to stay warm.
That day in the city at 13 years old I learned one of the
most important lessons I have in my entire life. It made me aware of how unjust
society is. It made me aware that I belonged to a stereotype that was not even
accurate. A stereotype that was molded for me, not even by people of color
themselves.
The racial stereotypes of early American history still
continue today when they were originally made as a method for control over them
back in the 1600s-1800s. The stereotypes would evolve but the overall idea
would stay the same.
Aunt Jemimah is the most modern stereotype, and it is
through Aunt Jemimah that the association of the African-American woman with
domestic work, especially cooking, became fixed in the minds of society.
No matter what, I have decided not to adhere to any
stereotype I can avoid because a stereotype from centuries ago does not define
a person today.
