In many ways I grew up a bit sheltered — not sheltered from
some of the ugliness in the world, but sheltered in that my folks told me that
mankind was ultimately good and that things in this country were improving.
While I would never think that the prejudices I did
experience in my formative and young adult years were as much as other
minorities, I was always aware of the different ways we were treated because
our dad was Puerto Rican (raised in PR and NYC) and our mom was a southern
white girl who was transplanted to New York. By the way, we were also a Jewish
family.
We frequently traveled to the south to visit mommy’s family
and we’d laugh because my dad always had her drive through some of the southern
states (now I realize it wasn’t so funny, he was genuinely scared of being
stopped by a southern state trooper with his dark skin). I remember walking
into a diner when I was young and noticing that none of the black families were
seated in the same areas as the white families; I also know how heavy my mom laid
on her thick southern drawl when the wait staff looked at my dad with
questions. My parents agreed that things were improving, everyone was at least
allowed to come in and have a meal. I was happy to hear my parents talk so
positively. Then, I was just ten years old when a church in Mississippi was
bombed and four young black girls were killed, one of them was only a year
older than me.
When I was in Junior High School I met my first real
boyfriend, Steve, he was blonde haired and blue eyed and oh so cute. We walked
to a local bowling alley for our first date and on our way home again we saw
his mom on the street. She frowned when she saw me and when my boyfriend
proudly introduced me by name, she looked angry when she heard my last name,
Cordero. That evening I got a phone call from him, he sounded upset when he
told me that he couldn’t see me anymore. I didn’t know why and he wouldn’t tell
me. A fellow classmate explained it to me a few days later, Steve wasn’t
allowed to go out with a Hispanic (although that was not the term that was
used).
As I grew into my teen years my parents were more open about
prejudice, its ugliness and the injustices people suffered. And I had become
more aware of the tensions in my school when students from other schools were
bussed in all in the name of integration. There were a lot of people who weren’t
happy and a lot of the new students kept to themselves. Meanwhile I was
beginning to feel the way others viewed my ethnicity and who I was. As a (half)
Hispanic, “white” Jewish teenage girl I found myself being ostracized my many
of the other groups — I wasn’t Spanish enough, I was too white, I was too
non-white, I was Jewish and the local parochial schools where teaching that the
Jews killed Christ, and being a girl I was excluded from many sports activities
at school.
In 1968 when so many cities were rioting, I visited my
grandmother living in Miami, I enjoyed sun tanning on the beach. On the way
back to NY we visited family in South Carolina. My cousin and I were walking
down the street when suddenly there was a huge fuss. I couldn’t understand why
I was being called ugly names, we hadn’t done anything. Cops were called and my
cousin and I were forcefully separated. A black police officer pushed me into
the street while I heard my cousin yelling (in her thick southern accent) “But
she’s white!” Suddenly my cousin broke through and pulled on my T-shirt to
expose the tan lines from the bathing suit straps.
The black police officer literally fell to his knees and
apologized telling me over and over again he needed his job. (The Kennedy-era
Civil Rights movement enabled the hiring of black officers, but this small southern town restricted them from laying hands on any white person.) I shrugged
and told the cop I was okay and he actually thanked me. I was in shock, because
of my darker skin, partially due to the sun tan, and my naturally curly, kinky
hair I was mistaken as being black. I had an insight into the prejudice many
blacks suffered… and that was only for a few minutes of my life. I thank the
good Lord every day for giving me that experience.
I grew up and got married to a really super guy, his family came
from northern Europe and a few folks snidely remarked that he was marrying a
non-white. It didn’t bother him and I really never thought of myself as being “white”
or not. Recently I’ve been delving into my family genealogy and found several documents
including both my dad’s and my father-in-law’s WW2 military records; my fil is
listed as White and my dad is listed as Non-White. I also submitted a DNA test;
I am a mixture of northern European, Ashkenazi Jew, Spanish, African and Native
American. I am damn proud of everything I am. I would imagine that most of us
have quite an unexpected mix as well. In America there are too many people who
don’t want to accept differences and I would find it amusing to know the DNA
background of some of our bigots.
But I will never find it amusing that someone of color is
looked down simply for their skin color. And I find it tremendously sad that black
parents have to teach their children the seven words (yes sir, no sir, thank
you sir) and pray that they will be able to come home every night. Prejudice
has no place in “the land of the free”.
RIP George Floyd
