I Got It From My Mother

I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood. That the speaking profits, beyond any other effect.

-Audrey Lorde, “The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action” 

My brown eyes, brunette hair, and darker olive skin are characteristics of my Lebanese heritage. I got it from my mother. Being from middle eastern descent but passing with eurocentric features, I grew up with a sense of white privilege that others in my family did not have. Growing up, my mom would tell me that kids in middle school would upset her by making fun of her Lebanese heritage by calling her “camel rider.” When I got older and began to take courses that highlighted the oppression of Arab people, specifically in the places in the Middle East including Lebanon, I started to ask more questions about if anyone in my family was specifically targeted for looking a certain way. My mom shared a story with me that stayed with her because of the fear that was instilled in her after the situation. During the years of the Gulf War, my mother and my grandfather were in the Heathrow airport when my grandfather was pulled into an interrogation room. For over two hours, they questioned him. My mother had no idea where they took him or why. The workers insisted the interrogation was random, but it was quite obvious that they were targeting a certain demographic; one that my grandfather happened to fit because of his physical appearance.

I never thought that I would experience anything similar to the ridicule my mother did from her classmates, or the stereotyping my grandfather received from airport workers. As someone who is growing up in a generation passionate about change, I am not naive to the cruelties of prejudices. However, I was naive to the fact that I could experience something of the sorts. When I was studying abroad in Italy amongst a demographic where the majority was white Europeans, I was often questioned about my ethnicity–in some ways more respectfully than others. Being told I have that “foreign look” (whatever that means), I was asked if I was Latina; if I was from Egypt; if I was from the Middle East. I never hesitated to proudly state I am Lebanese. In one instance, a man outside a cafe had come up to me asking where I was from. When the conversation advanced from friendly to flirtatious, I politely attempted to shut down the situation. If you are a woman reading this, it is safe to say you have an inclination of how this man reacted. Immediately a switch was flipped, and the interest in my ethnicity turned into a disgusted judgment of my skin color. With an evil look he told me, “You are so ugly. Look at your skin. It’s the color of shit. You are so ugly.” All my life, I had white privilege. I never had derogatory comments made about my skin. I was shocked, confused, and immediately felt threatened. I never shared this encounter with anyone, because as a white person who undoubtedly has more privilege than others, I did not want to give the impression that I was a victim of something that was even comparable to the prejudices that marginalized people experience every day. 

Truthfully I think about this situation a lot. But I specifically think about the silence that has erupted from it. I was silent when these hurtful remarks were made, and I have been silent since. As a woman who is so outspoken about the justice of other people, I was disappointed that silence had defeated me. As a woman who was raised by her mother to stand up and be an advocate for herself, I was disappointed that I could not tell her of a reaction that would make her proud. Looking back, I got a taste of why it is so difficult for the oppressed to fight back. You do not want to be silent, but you are. You are silent because being verbal comes with higher risks. You are silent because you do not think your story matters. As someone who has a platform and privilege to share words with the world, I find my silence about this situation to be a disservice to the people who experience prejudices everyday. For one, I feel like a hypocrite telling an audience to talk about their personal injustices if I do not do the same (and my mom taught me not to be a hypocrite). Second, I wanted to share this story to shed light on the fact that racism is not a fading concept. This man could have commented negatively on any part of my physical appearance. This man thought I was a woman of color, and chose to comment on my skin tone because he knew that a racist comment would hurt above all else. 

We live in a society that attacks race based on ignorance.

We live in a society that is too proud to recognize that we are flawed.

We live in a society that is hateful; one that’s judgment ranges from subtle microaggressions to blatant racism. 

It's time for this world to change. That means it is time for every voice to become unsilenced. Your feelings matter, and your story matters. To you, I leave advice on on how to ditch your relationship with silence:

Write. If you cannot find the words to say aloud, write them down. You have the right to express yourself.

Resist. Call out injustices, even if it is simply a microaggression that was meant as a “joke.” Oppressors do not deserve to have that power. 

Share. Talk to other people about your experiences and listen to their stories. People fighting for the same cause need to support each other. 

I used to make my best friend order my food for me at restaurants. I never was comfortable ordering a coffee at a Dunkin drive-through, or scheduling a doctor's appointment by myself. For a long time, the matter of simple communication was intimidating and brought about an insecurity of saying the wrong thing. Somewhere there was a shift within my mindset that allowed the importance of my words to trump the insecurity I had of being misunderstood. This simply could have been a goal reached through maturity; however, I have concluded that my overarching power over my silence was reached due to an overwhelming sense of responsibility that I felt to stick up for myself and others. If a person like me was able to defeat silence, I am confident you are too. 

One of my favorite writers, Audre Lorde, notes that there are so many silences that must be broken. And this is my attempt to use my intellect and heart to break the silence. This is my attempt to analyze my own experiences in order to stick up for others. And that fiery passion to never give up and to be that person other people can rely on–thank you mom, because that is something I also got from you.