One brown face is not enough. One brown face is just the beginning.
I’ve had a hard time articulating what this Biden-Harris administration means, the obvious reasons aside, of course. I’ve been the only woman of color in the room, at the table, with the microphone, for most of my life. I haven’t always been heard, and it’s not because I’m quiet. I’ve been in circles of power throughout my career and often felt more diminished and tokenized than valued. Overall, my experiences have been demoralizing in an environment punctuated by the club of mediocre white men who seem to permeate all facets of our world. I cannot wait to read Ijeoma Oluo’s book on the topic. Women, and certainly women of color (and women of a certain age for that matter), are not represented in seats of power and influence. We cannot separate the inextricable link among power, privilege, and the patriarchy.
To see Kamala Harris, a Black and Indian woman in the vice presidency is powerful beyond measure. Representation Matters is my battle cry. I wear my heart on my sleeve and my battle cry on my chest.
Not only do women like me relish this world of representation, it tees up possibilities for young Black and brown women and girls, as well as men and boys to normalize women at the helm. As the mother of sons, I want them to be actively anti-racist and be a part of smashing the patriarchy. They should grow up seeing women in leadership as normalized rather than a sea of firsts as we see in 2021.
Below is a piece I wrote 10 years ago, entitled One Brown Face. It speaks to the ugliness I felt all my life. If you grow up not seeing yourself, it tells you that the world doesn’t value people who look like you. It is astonishing that these words seem to be timeless. I had hoped for better days all these years, and I am hopeful now.
My sons’ school is an oasis in the public school system. The environment is rich for learning and full of teachers whose curiosity about the world shines through every single day. Our current school board, the same one responsible for the U.S. Department of Education investigating segregationist activities here in Wake County, North Carolina, has a twisted perspective of education and student achievement. Their irresponsible and reprehensible antics just might dismantle my sons’ school. Their proposals will resegregate our county’s schools, in effect making my sons among the only few brown faces in their school. I know firsthand how damaging it can be to grow up in a world where you are mocked for being different.
(Side note added today: The state school board is currently trying to whitewash social studies standards. Does it never end?!)
It started in Mrs. O’Neal’s class in first grade. We were talking about what we wanted to be when we grew up. Being an ambitious young girl, I confidently remarked that I wanted to be President. My teacher sternly stared at me and snapped, “You can never be President. You were not born in America. Pick something else.” I was heartbroken, not having known about the 14th Amendment at the tender age of six. That teacher called me out in a demeaning, not nurturing, way. My classmates got further fodder to see me as different. They all snickered at my expense, not even fully understanding what was happening.
Such experiences peppered my school days. I used to throw away my lunch and go hungry to avoid being teased when my dad packed me leftover Tandoori chicken. I tried lying, claiming it was barbecue chicken, but the whole table of kids sneered at its orange color. My parents, both well-educated professionals, spoke with an accent. They spoke to us in our native language, Bengali. After enduring much teasing for that, I started responding in English and gave up my mother tongue. I can barely understand Bengali now and know only a few words to teach to my sons. This is one of my life’s biggest regrets.
I recently dug up a photo of my high school graduating class. We were a small bunch of maybe 50 kids. We were beaming, boys in navy blazers and girls in pristine white dresses. That wasn’t the only white in the photo. My five-year-old son commented that mine was the only brown face in the picture. It was a black and white photo so the contrast was even more vivid.
It’s not that I didn’t sense the dynamics then. I knew I was the only brown girl in the class at an affluent private school. I had simply resigned myself to being the odd girl out, in oh so many ways. I suppose I was used to it yet never comfortable with it. I was always different in school. I stood out, and not necessarily for being a shining light. No one looked like me throughout most of my school years. I never had images of beauty that looked like me growing up. No brown dolls or images on TV. I never felt beautiful. No one ever told me I was pretty. And to a young girl in her tweens and teens, “pretty” equals “worthy.”
I was faced with shocked expressions masked by faux graciousness upon walking into many friend’s homes. And more than once, mothers remarked aloud that they hadn’t realized such-and-such’s friend was from another country. “Oh, how quaint. How different. How interesting,” I heard murmured while said mother had a pained smiley expression pursed across her face. And then came the multiple repeats of my name. “Spell that for me, dear.” I-L-I-N-A. “Oh, well, it must be difficult to have a name no one can say.” I’d nod in a politely agreeable manner. “Do you have a nickname?” No, ma’am. “It’s shame a name like yours can’t be shortened into something more manageable.” This was before the advent of easy personalization and monogramming so I was reminded that even my name was weird when my friends pulled out pencils and lunch kits and barrettes emblazoned with their monikers. Life was easy back then for Jennifers, Lisas, Susans, and Nancys. Life with a name that no one can pronounce or spell is never quite as easy. My looks, my name, my parents’ accent, all made me different.
And then like now, different is not better. Differences seem to be frowned upon, and tolerance preached rather than acceptance. I’m a grown woman of 42 now and am finally comfortable and confident. I hope to pass on to my sons, first-generation Americans born of a mom from Calcutta and a dad from a tiny town in Wisconsin, that their differences make them special. I want them to grow up seeing faces of all colors. I want them to grow up hearing languages from all time zones and taste food from all continents. I want them to take pride in their heritage and embrace other cultures. I want their school years to be marked with a zeal for curiosity, support of differences, and love of learning.
My sons currently attend a phenomenal International Studies magnet school. It is a public school that nurtures kids and focuses on the curriculum from a global perspective. This is their world. My seven-year-old learned to read and write in German at the same time he was learning the same in English. He is now studying Japanese. My kindergartener takes Chinese and comes home babbling in a tongue we don’t understand but try to catch on. They see a kaleidoscope of kids and don’t feel bad about looking different. I’m not proposing we hide or erase differences. I’m suggesting we embrace them. Celebrate them. My sons study winter holidays from around the world. They have learned more about Diwali in school than even I could teach them. I have hosted an International Cooking class in my kitchen and was astounded at how gracious those kids were when they had second helpings of my chicken curry. The same turmeric stained chicken I threw away as a child in an attempt to toss out my own heritage.
I pray my sons’ futures will be different. I pray that they can continue to benefit from an environment that encourages and applauds differences and learn that having a brown face isn’t a mark of shame.
In Representation We Trust.