Another Thread in the Quilt
Following on the metaphor that our lives are a patchwork quilt, it seems to me that when we turn and look at the patchs that have already unfolded, we begin to see patterns. Events, circumstances, words, deeds, people, et al that were lessons or threads or patchs of material that went into the making of our quilt. And often we see how those previous patchs influence us today.
Take being an adjuster for instance...I deal with all sorts of people, from all walks of life, in every socio-economical sphere, in every nation, creed and colour...and I love it. The favourite part of my job is sitting at the kitchen table with someone new to Canada and asking them to tell me their story. While I appreciate the differences in cultures, at the end of the day, I value each and every person I meet and can say that I have never had a racist or bias bone in my body. I've always made a point to learn about someone's culture, and unpack the stereotypes that may form an unconscious bias in me. And when I say someone's culture, I don't just mean ethnicity, I also mean family culture, socio-economic culture, religious culture etc.
It wasn't always that way though...or was it?
I grew up in what seemed to be a 100% Anglo-Saxon Protestant neighbourhood on Vancouver Island. The only culturally different family on our block were the Italians who moved next door. I remember a boy in my grade 2 class changing his family name from Ryanowski to Ryan, and I recall my stepfather making wise cracks about "polacks". While there was obviously prejudice and stereotyping in my family of origin, I do not remember overt racism.
The first time I saw anyone of African descent was in the movie Sounder, on my 6th birthday. The movie was about a sharecropper and his family and the injustice they suffered when the dad stole a chicken to feed his hungry children. I'll never forget being angry at that, and my hunch is this was one of the threads God has used to knit a sense of social responsibility and justice in me...but I digress.
This is really about my first real crush. I was in grade 6, and 12 or 13 years old at the time. We had just moved to Sidney, and I was regaining equilibrium after years of abuse; I was new to the school, and more than just a little scared and lonely. That year the whole class started writing to pen pals in a Vancouver grade 6 class. (I wish I could remember the name of the school). Part way through the year we did an exchange, and spent a week staying with our pen pals families and attending their school. That's where I met Hassan, one of several brown boys in the class. He was so cute, and so nice, and we became as good as friends as two 12/13 years old can in a week. When it was time to go home, we were excited knowing that it would only be a few weeks before Hassan and the rest of our penpals would be coming over to stay with our families.
I remember on the ferry ride home telling some of the girls in my class that I liked Hassan and I will never forget the reaction...they screwed up their faces, said a collective "eewwwww" and made comments to the effect that he was a dirty "pakee". And because I was new to the school, and wanted these girls to like me, I got in line and went with it. When the Vancouver class came over a few weeks later, I acted like I never knew Hassan, totally ignored him and never talked to him again. I'll never know how that may have hurt him or how that cemented his own stereotypes about high and mighty, racist white girls.
The truth at the time was that these girls acceptance was more important to me than my own and I gave up something important to have it.
Racism is a putrid thing, stereotyping and bias just as bad. I'm glad to say that I am no longer silent and going along with it when I hear others being ignorant in their perception of people from other cultures. And in keeping with the patchwork quilt, perhaps this experience with Hassan was another thread God used to knit into me a particular affinity or interest in newcomers to Canada, and perhaps that's why I so enjoy sitting at their kitchen tables.
Take being an adjuster for instance...I deal with all sorts of people, from all walks of life, in every socio-economical sphere, in every nation, creed and colour...and I love it. The favourite part of my job is sitting at the kitchen table with someone new to Canada and asking them to tell me their story. While I appreciate the differences in cultures, at the end of the day, I value each and every person I meet and can say that I have never had a racist or bias bone in my body. I've always made a point to learn about someone's culture, and unpack the stereotypes that may form an unconscious bias in me. And when I say someone's culture, I don't just mean ethnicity, I also mean family culture, socio-economic culture, religious culture etc.
It wasn't always that way though...or was it?
I grew up in what seemed to be a 100% Anglo-Saxon Protestant neighbourhood on Vancouver Island. The only culturally different family on our block were the Italians who moved next door. I remember a boy in my grade 2 class changing his family name from Ryanowski to Ryan, and I recall my stepfather making wise cracks about "polacks". While there was obviously prejudice and stereotyping in my family of origin, I do not remember overt racism.
The first time I saw anyone of African descent was in the movie Sounder, on my 6th birthday. The movie was about a sharecropper and his family and the injustice they suffered when the dad stole a chicken to feed his hungry children. I'll never forget being angry at that, and my hunch is this was one of the threads God has used to knit a sense of social responsibility and justice in me...but I digress.
This is really about my first real crush. I was in grade 6, and 12 or 13 years old at the time. We had just moved to Sidney, and I was regaining equilibrium after years of abuse; I was new to the school, and more than just a little scared and lonely. That year the whole class started writing to pen pals in a Vancouver grade 6 class. (I wish I could remember the name of the school). Part way through the year we did an exchange, and spent a week staying with our pen pals families and attending their school. That's where I met Hassan, one of several brown boys in the class. He was so cute, and so nice, and we became as good as friends as two 12/13 years old can in a week. When it was time to go home, we were excited knowing that it would only be a few weeks before Hassan and the rest of our penpals would be coming over to stay with our families.
I remember on the ferry ride home telling some of the girls in my class that I liked Hassan and I will never forget the reaction...they screwed up their faces, said a collective "eewwwww" and made comments to the effect that he was a dirty "pakee". And because I was new to the school, and wanted these girls to like me, I got in line and went with it. When the Vancouver class came over a few weeks later, I acted like I never knew Hassan, totally ignored him and never talked to him again. I'll never know how that may have hurt him or how that cemented his own stereotypes about high and mighty, racist white girls.
The truth at the time was that these girls acceptance was more important to me than my own and I gave up something important to have it.
Racism is a putrid thing, stereotyping and bias just as bad. I'm glad to say that I am no longer silent and going along with it when I hear others being ignorant in their perception of people from other cultures. And in keeping with the patchwork quilt, perhaps this experience with Hassan was another thread God used to knit into me a particular affinity or interest in newcomers to Canada, and perhaps that's why I so enjoy sitting at their kitchen tables.
Comments
Post a Comment