Life of Being an African American
Narrative – The life as an African American
Throughout my life, I have had to battle with my own identity, as many people do. It is not just a black thing, I’m sure. I know people from all different ethnicities, who struggle to find themselves, but this has little to do with the way they look on the outside – it is the quest to find out who they are on the inside. I found that person when I was thirteen years old, but then when I moved to the United States from Chicago eight years ago, I underwent another sort of struggle with identity. This time it was because of the way I looked, and it was less than a personal struggle than it was a fight against discrimination. I had never really experienced any form of racial discrimination in Chicago; almost everyone who lived in our area was African American, with a few exceptions. There were a few white people, but they apparently were not indicative of the general population in America, as I never received any mistreatment or discrimination from them, and likewise, I do not believe they suffered any discrimination by my fellow African Americans. Everyone sort of just fit in and carried on with their daily lives. I am ashamed to admit that this is how I thought that my life would be in Texas as well.
I did expect things to be different. I knew that Dallas were more affluent and I knew that there were buildings as big as some of our smaller towns. The buildings in the brochures seemed to reach the sky. I believed that the sky would be bluer, the air cleaner, and the people would be as friendly as they seemed to be on television and in the brochures. All of these shiny, smiling white faces would greet me with open arms and assist me in any way possible to make my stay wonderful.
However, the exact opposite has happened to me. Although I am not the only African American by far to come to Dallas, I certainly felt all alone my first six months here. While I did meet other African Americans, and they welcomed me,
Throughout my life, I have had to battle with my own identity, as many people do. It is not just a black thing, I’m sure. I know people from all different ethnicities, who struggle to find themselves, but this has little to do with the way they look on the outside – it is the quest to find out who they are on the inside. I found that person when I was thirteen years old, but then when I moved to the United States from Chicago eight years ago, I underwent another sort of struggle with identity. This time it was because of the way I looked, and it was less than a personal struggle than it was a fight against discrimination. I had never really experienced any form of racial discrimination in Chicago; almost everyone who lived in our area was African American, with a few exceptions. There were a few white people, but they apparently were not indicative of the general population in America, as I never received any mistreatment or discrimination from them, and likewise, I do not believe they suffered any discrimination by my fellow African Americans. Everyone sort of just fit in and carried on with their daily lives. I am ashamed to admit that this is how I thought that my life would be in Texas as well.
I did expect things to be different. I knew that Dallas were more affluent and I knew that there were buildings as big as some of our smaller towns. The buildings in the brochures seemed to reach the sky. I believed that the sky would be bluer, the air cleaner, and the people would be as friendly as they seemed to be on television and in the brochures. All of these shiny, smiling white faces would greet me with open arms and assist me in any way possible to make my stay wonderful.
However, the exact opposite has happened to me. Although I am not the only African American by far to come to Dallas, I certainly felt all alone my first six months here. While I did meet other African Americans, and they welcomed me,