My Occasion | Cora Bryan
My siblings and I were always accused of lounging around on the couch like a litter of kittens. My 12 year-old brother was laying down on one end, myself, 13, laying on the other, my 15 year old sister sitting, on our legs, in the middle, and Clinton, the 6 year old, sitting with his little behind on the edge of the couch by me. This was a typical scene for us as the little town of Byron, Wyoming, has little entertainment to offer. I don’t recall how the subject was broached, but Clinton was concerned about the lack of friends he had. “What about Thomas?” We suggested. Then he said, ever so subtly, “He’s just a dirty Mexican.” Charlie and I, caught off guard, of course, burst out into laughter.
Now before you start thinking that we’re nothing but racist pigs, there’s something you ought to know about our family. Though our mother is white as a sheet with near albino hair, she is fluent in Spanish and will often have to translate for our dad when someone tries to speak to him in Spanish; more specifically, when his family tries to speak to him in Spanish. Yes, he’s Hispanic.
“You do realize that you’re Mexican, right?” Cassandra says.
“Nu-uh. I’m half, you’re whole.”
Charlie and I are beyond laughter at this point, but my sister begins to fume. She begins ranting and raving about him being prejudiced and begins yelling and screaming about him hating his own family and so forth and so on. Charlie and I roll our eyes. It was quite the norm for her to blow things out of proportion and not thinking that, chances are, he probably just repeated what he had heard from other kids. Of course, we didn’t say anything. Cassandra could be a bit scary when she was on the rampage.
After a couple of minutes of listening to our crabby sister, Charlie and I started to become solemn and really consider the situation; that poor Thomas. He was such a nice boy. And how did this kind of filth get in the mouth of first-graders, let alone our brother’s? When I was a kid, I never felt isolated or stereotyped. I didn’t even really hear any racial remarks. I thought it was just a tragic part of text books. It’s possible I was just naïve. It is also possible that we younger three were able to fit in because my brothers, and especially myself, looked Caucasian. One thing for sure, hate was in our community. Somehow it was taught to my baby brother by kids who were taught by someone else.
And yet, I wonder now, is this what has become of my dad’s heritage? Of our heritage? What happened to that beautiful Spanish language that my family cannot speak or understand? Have we abandoned it for fear of prejudice and persecution all for the sake of fitting in?
Later that night, the Earnest Green Story, one of those civil rights movies, was on TV. Cassandra had long retreated to her room out of disgust. After a few scenes of all the black people being beat up, or threatened, little 6-year-old Clinton, looked up at me with sad eyes.
“Why? Why are those people being so mean? They’re just darker skinned. Why?”
Now before you start thinking that we’re nothing but racist pigs, there’s something you ought to know about our family. Though our mother is white as a sheet with near albino hair, she is fluent in Spanish and will often have to translate for our dad when someone tries to speak to him in Spanish; more specifically, when his family tries to speak to him in Spanish. Yes, he’s Hispanic.
“You do realize that you’re Mexican, right?” Cassandra says.
“Nu-uh. I’m half, you’re whole.”
Charlie and I are beyond laughter at this point, but my sister begins to fume. She begins ranting and raving about him being prejudiced and begins yelling and screaming about him hating his own family and so forth and so on. Charlie and I roll our eyes. It was quite the norm for her to blow things out of proportion and not thinking that, chances are, he probably just repeated what he had heard from other kids. Of course, we didn’t say anything. Cassandra could be a bit scary when she was on the rampage.
After a couple of minutes of listening to our crabby sister, Charlie and I started to become solemn and really consider the situation; that poor Thomas. He was such a nice boy. And how did this kind of filth get in the mouth of first-graders, let alone our brother’s? When I was a kid, I never felt isolated or stereotyped. I didn’t even really hear any racial remarks. I thought it was just a tragic part of text books. It’s possible I was just naïve. It is also possible that we younger three were able to fit in because my brothers, and especially myself, looked Caucasian. One thing for sure, hate was in our community. Somehow it was taught to my baby brother by kids who were taught by someone else.
And yet, I wonder now, is this what has become of my dad’s heritage? Of our heritage? What happened to that beautiful Spanish language that my family cannot speak or understand? Have we abandoned it for fear of prejudice and persecution all for the sake of fitting in?
Later that night, the Earnest Green Story, one of those civil rights movies, was on TV. Cassandra had long retreated to her room out of disgust. After a few scenes of all the black people being beat up, or threatened, little 6-year-old Clinton, looked up at me with sad eyes.
“Why? Why are those people being so mean? They’re just darker skinned. Why?”
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