Racism's roots are in lack of understanding

By Randah Griffiths

September 19, 2005 | It seems that some of life's greatest memories come from the carefree summer days of childhood. I can remember arid, parched days in the deserts of New Mexico, playing in the red sandstone mountains right behind my house with my best friend, Monique Garcia. We spent every waking moment together. We would daydream and make-believe for hours upon hours.

When I was 11, my family moved from New Mexico to Idaho. All I knew of Idaho was that it was the land of potatoes and that it was far away from Monique and from the home I had known most of my life. That move changed my life in more ways than I would ever have imagined.

Growing up in Gallup, N.M., I had been the minority in my elementary school. I felt the stinging remarks at times as students mocked me for being the white girl. I appreciated those who accepted me in spite of our racial differences. In a school that was 80 percent Navajo Indian and 15 percent Hispanic, a white kid learned quickly that skin color made a difference to many people. I realized at a young age that it was tough being seen as different than the norm.

My best friends were Hispanic and Native American. I attended family functions with them, taking trips to the reservations, and learned much about their ethnic backgrounds. Having lived in a culturally diverse atmosphere my entire life, I was comfortable with differences. Skin color was not an issue to me. Though it was apparent every day that I was different, I grew up feeling comfortable with who I was. I understood that I was different and that some people would never accept me because of it. There were moments when it hurt to be different, but I learned that was part of life. It was a childhood that made me realize that racism is not fair. That knowledge formed a solid base for me, one that does not tolerate racism.

Upon moving to Idaho, I experienced culture shock. I had never been part of the majority before. I didn't like what I saw as the majority. I had entered another dimension -- middle-class-white-ville.

I remember that my sixth grade class had only one Hispanic kid, Joey. Everyone else was white. Joey was quiet, overlooked, and basically ignored. Some of the cooler boys made fun of him behind his back. I remember thinking (in my deep eleven-year-old thoughts) that this was not right. I had been where Joey was. I had been the white girl. I knew what it felt like to be the "black sheep." I made it my goal that first day of sixth grade to be nice to Joey. I felt such a connection to him. As a child I had come to accept being the minority. I was OK with that, though I always remembered what it felt like. I did not like being part of the group that was doing the taunting and teasing.

I later went on a mission for my church, working with the Hispanic population of Dallas, Texas. What a love I gained for these people as I was immersed in their culture, learned to speak their language, and came to understand what a hospitable people they are. When I returned home from 18 months in Texas, it broke my heart to hear racial jokes and slurs about these people I loved.

I had been the minority. I had also been the majority. I had come to understand both sides of the equation. I realized that racism is all about a lack of understanding. It is through taking time to learn about and understand another culture that we can appreciate those around us. Most people are afraid of differences. It's easier to focus on differences than to look past them. People of all races are more common than not. We all have the same desires and goals.

I am grateful that I grew up in a situation that allowed me to see the whole picture. I know that stereotypes are rarely factual or correct. I know that being the minority is tough. I learned very young that friends comes in all colors. Many years later, I still think back to those carefree summer days in New Mexico. The world was simpler to me then. All I knew was that Monique and I were best friends. It didn't occur to me then that we were different. Well, maybe it occurred to me, but it didn't matter. If only we could all look at people the way young children do -- as people, not as colors.

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