THEFIRSTTIMEI realizedracewasaThing,I wasstaringat
a pileofmagazinesinpreschoolsurroundedbya seaofpudgy
Whitefaces.Wewereallhuddledtogetherforourfirstofficial
schoolassignment.Theonlybrownkidsthereweremeand
Juan, thesweetMexicankidwhotaught mehow totiemy
shoelaces.The teacher wasinstructingustomakecollages
thatrepresentedourfamilies.Allwehadtodowasdiveinto
thelargestackofmagazinesonthetable,cutoutpicturesof
peoplewhoresembleourfamilymembersandpastethemonto
a pieceofpaper.Easyenough.I have always loved a collaging
moment– evenwaybackthen.
AsI flippedthroughthepages,I sawsmilingWhiteladiesin
pristinekitchens,cuteWhitebabieswearingPull-Ups,handsome
Whitemeninpowersuits,WhitekidspicnickingonCrayola-
green grass. I had never heard anyone use terms like
“representation”before;allI knewwasno-oneonanyofthose
magazinepageslookedlikemeormyfamily.It reinforcedwhat
I hadsomehowalreadyinternalized: I was different. Other. An
odditylivingina Whiteworld.
My mom continued to try to circumvent the lack of
diversity at school by instituting her own informal cultural
literacy program at home, doing whatever she could to
ensure thather mixedkidswerefluentin Blackculture. She
enrolledmeinWestAfricandanceclassandwasadamant
aboutmewearingmyhairinbraids.Shemadeuselaborate
soul food mealsand filled ourhousehold with Ebony and
Jet magazines and literature that filled our minds with
endless “Black facts” about inventors, engineers, astronauts
anddancers wholookedlikeus. Thiswasrightaroundthe
timethefirstdiversityboomhitthesmallscreenandAmerica
enteredintothegoldenageofBlacksitcoms—FamilyMatters,
TheFreshPrinceOfBel-Air,TheCosbyShow,Martin,Living
Single all got heavyrotation in our living room throughout
the early 1990s.Weekends were a total immersion– our
Saturdayswerespent at the Black hair salon and Sundays
intheBlackchurch.
EverySunday,mymom,[mybrother]EricandI piledintoour
whiteFordTaurusand journeyedapproximately 30 minutes
southonHighwayI-880fromapredominantlyWhiteworldin
Newark[California]totheBlackworldinsideAntiochBaptist
Church in San Jose. My dad usually drove separately
inhismidnight-blueElCaminobecauseheneededanoutif
theholleringfromthepulpitwentontoolong.Andit always
wentontoolongforhistaste.Hewasraisedinamuchmore
time-oriented Irish Catholic church where no act of God
requiredmorethan 60 minutes.MybrotherandI, ontheother
hand,hadnochoicebuttostaywithmymomtotheend. We
servedasushersandwesanginthechildren’s choir.
For us, there was no escaping.
Back in that preschool classroom, though, while all the
other kidswereglue-sticking theirlittle brainsout, I was still
slowly flipping through pages, absorbing the messages in
those magazines, searching for any hint of myself or my
motherorbrother.EachpagewasteemingwithWhitesmiling
faces and visualcues telling me it wasbetter tobeWhite
than whatever colour I was. At that age, when someone
handsyouapairofscissors,agluestick,astackofmagazines
filled with White people and asks you to cut out pictures
thatlooklikeyouandyourfamily,youdowhatanyoneliving
in a hyper-White world would do, and what all of your
classmates were doing– you cut out White people. And
that’sexactlywhatI did.
Pickinga Whitedadwaseasy.Thereweresomanytochoose
from!I couldhaveaWhitebusinessmandad.AWhiteburly,
hunter-lookingdad.A Whitecartoondadwitha toolbeltaround
hiswaist.AWhitesmiley,mustacheddadinabluecollared
shirt.I wentwiththeWhitemodelesquecartoondadintheslick
businesssuitwhowasholdingabriefcaseandseemedtobe
headingsomewhereveryimportant(I’mprettysureI foundhim
ina Men’sWearhousead).Ofcourse,thismancouldnothave
beenfurtherofffrommyactualdad,whowasstillworkingas
acarpenterthen,cominghomecoveredinsawdust.Thiswas
beforetheaccidentthatlefthimwithsuchadebilitating back
injury that he had to stop working altogether.>MEMOIR
95
“EACH PAGE was
TEEMING with WHITE
SMILING FACES and
VISUAL CUES telling me
IT WAS BETTER to be
WHITE than WHATEVER
COLOUR I WAS”
Elaine
Welteroth