What about all of the oppressed minorities in the US? How do these minorities bear on the notion of American exceptionalism?

                                                                                Emily Royer

                                                                                H Block

                  

It’s five o’clock in the morning and the shrill sound of my alarm goes off, interrupting my latest fantastical dream. It’s hard to believe how quickly time passes when you’re asleep, and I groan as I think about the prospects ahead. Unfortunately it’s already time to get ready for school, and a wave of panic filters through me as I consider what to wear. I know I can’t wear anything that will make me look “ghetto”, so my options are limited. I wish silently to myself that we had money so that I could buy expensive clothes like the other girls at school. I settle on my favorite pair of blue jeans and a white shirt; I try to play it simple so that no one will have anything to say. After, I go to the bathroom to wash up and as always, end up staring at myself in the mirror for what seems an eternity. I gaze at each feature on my face: my dark brown eyes, my generous lips, my nose, all surrounded by the chocolate canvas of my skin. Salty tears form, stinging my eyes and then dribbling off my chin, as I wonder, like I did the day before, and the day before that, why I can’t look like everyone else. “Grace”, my mom calls “ Get down here so you aren’t late for the bus!”. I grab my book bag and dash down the stairs, wiping any trace of the tears off my face so my mom won’t see.

I’m running late, so I rush straight out the door and onto the bus. I sit down next to my best friend Rita and we exchange smiles. The bus ride to school is my favorite part of the day because for once I don’t feel like an outsider. Rita and I talk, laugh, and smile until our faces hurt; soaking up every moment we get with one another, until suddenly we’re at school. Rita feels me tense up, and squeezes my hand as the bus stops. “You’re fine Gracie, you’ve got this” she says, looking into my eyes. “Yeah, thanks Ri” I say half heartedly, and grab my bag as we exit the bus.

I go to my first class, then my second, and then my third. As I walk through the hallways I try to blend in, but my complexion doesn’t make it easy on me. My fourth class is the one I dread the most, because all of the ‘popular’ girls are in it. Whenever I see them I feel a strong sense of fear, anger, and envy all at the same time. They are everything that an American girl is supposed to be: pretty, thin, and wealthy. I desperately want to be like them; I want to be thought of as an American girl, not looked down upon as an outsider. They are the ones who treat me like a freak though; like I have two heads or something.... they are always looking at me and whispering to one another, but talking just loud enough to be heard. Usually they make fun of my clothes but sometimes, if they are feeling particularly nasty, they’ll make jabs about my family situation.

I sit down slowly trying to avoid eye contact, but as soon as they see me the taunting begins. “Hey Grace” snarls Meredith, the alpha of the group, “It really sucks that you can’t afford any nice clothes...must be because your daddy left your sorry family”. “Doesn’t it seem like that always happens with their kind of people?” snickered Jessica, as her devilish blue eyes danced and narrowed in on me. The words flew through their perfect teeth and surrounded me, echoing again and again. They had gone too far this time. My father had passed away from cancer and there was no one in the world I had loved more than him. The fact that they would take his name in vain like that makes me angrier than ever...but yet I can’t defend myself. I feel my face burn, my fists clench, my eyes water, and my mouth open- but nothing comes out. There is nothing I can say, they are ‘superior’ to me, and there isn’t anything I can do about it. So I just look forward, try to ignore the whispers I hear behind me, and focus on learning. After all, I am supposed to be grateful for this ‘wonderful opportunity’ to go to such a great school, right?

  The rest of the day passes like it always does and in the end I find myself back where I started; at home staring at my reflection in the mirror. I feel emptiness come over me, and shame for not defending my father and myself. I run my fingers down the bridge of my nose, my father’s nose, and think about what the girls said. They were wrong about my father leaving, but they were right about one thing; that ‘my people’ are different than theirs, and because of that are treated differently. Despite how far African Americans have come since the slave trade and the civil rights movement, we are still looked at as lesser people than whites, and there is nothing we can do about it. We could be given any kind of right, and white people will still be looked to as the dominant people. Seems to me that Americans may see themselves as exceptional, but not everybody in America can be considered a true American then.