This is the second post in a four-part series centered on listening to lived experiences with racism.
In part one of this series, we listened to stories that showed how racism isn’t always loud or obvious, but still leaves a lasting mark and shapes the way people move through the world. In part two, we are listening to stories of how early those experiences begin.
As mothers, we all want our children to feel safe, loved, and free to simply be kids. In focusing so intently on our own children and families, it can be easy to miss what may be happening just beyond our immediate families and homes—in the lives of our neighbors, our children’s classmates, teammates, and friends whose experiences may look very different from our own.
Part of the motherhood journey for me has been realizing that while we are all doing our best within our own homes and families, we are also collectively participating in this thing called motherhood. That means we’re not just raising our own children—we’re shaping the world they’re growing up in together. While this is a huge responsibility, it also gives me hope. We all have a voice and a part in shaping the future.
“Each child belongs to all of us, and they will bring us a tomorrow in direct relation to the responsibility we have shown to them.”
— Maya Angelou
What follows are some of the stories I’ve had the privilege of listening to. I hope we can all pull up a chair, listen, reflect, and consider how we move forward together.
Anonymous Contributor
I remember a moment when I experienced racism because someone made fun of my eyes. I felt really confused because I had never encountered something like that before. I didn’t know what to do, so I just walked away. Later, my dad explained to me what had happened, and that’s when I understood. It made me feel upset and angry—not just because it happened to me, but because it happened to my family too.
I remember another moment when my dad didn’t just explain it. He stood up to someone and defended himself, me, and my brother. That took a lot of bravery. I hope he continues to stay strong in moments like that because it meant everything to me.
I wish more people truly understood what racism is. I wish they would actually learn the definition and think about what it really means. I believe that if people looked closer, thought harder, and were willing to accept the truth, then hope could start to spread. I also wish people would think carefully about what they choose to say when they are being racist. Words matter. People should not make someone suffer for their own benefit, especially because of the color of their skin. We are all human, and we should all be kind and respectful to one another.
We were all chosen to take care of this world. But if we keep being racist, this world will not be kind or respectful—it will be torn, broken, and full of hurt. Racism is part of that hurt, and it needs to stop.
My experiences with racism have shaped how I think about community, safety, and belonging. Because of what I’ve gone through, I often feel separated from the community around me. I don’t feel appreciated, and sometimes I don’t even feel human. I feel different, like I am not like them. They get to be rude and then walk away as if nothing happened, while I have to carry the weight of what they did. It feels like carrying bricks or something heavy all day long—maybe even for the rest of my life—while they carry light feathers.
What I hope white parents teach their kids about race is that race is just a word, but it is also part of who you are and always will be. Parents should not lie to their kids about race. They should teach them to stand up for people their age who are of a different race and to support them. Standing up for someone who is of a different race from you should not be seen as a bad thing—it should be honored. It should matter more than winning a Nobel Prize or being named artist of the year. Solving problems like racism should be one of the most valuable things in life. Racism should not continue. It should come to an end.
Anonymous Contributor
One time, a friend’s grandmother said there was something wrong with my eyes. It made me feel really mad because I think she probably meant it in a racial stereotype kind of way.
Another time, I was waiting in line to order at a restaurant when this kid randomly turned around and told me, “Enjoy it now. You’re going to be deported soon. ICE is going to get you.”
That hurt my feelings and made me feel othered. It also scared me. Even though I’m a citizen and I know I’d get back to my family, it still made me worried that something like that could actually happen.
I believe that no matter what someone looks like, they are the same as you in every way that matters. Everyone should learn about Black history in the United States and in other countries, too.
Some people respond to racism by laughing it off or acting like it’s not a big deal, but that isn’t right. Just because someone doesn’t make a big reaction doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
Patience S.
I think my experiences with racism—starting within my own family—have shaped how I see others, especially white people. Growing up adopted made me feel as if all Black people needed to be saved, and that I was the “lucky one.”
That belief influenced how I came to understand whiteness, white saviorism, and supremacy. Growing up with dark skin, I was treated as if I had a disease. I remember people not wanting to touch me, and those moments stayed with me. Even now, when dark skin is more accepted or popular, it sometimes feels like a fetish—something admired for attention or clout, rather than genuine attraction or respect.
Even the smallest acts of racism can have the longest and most lasting impacts on a person’s life.
Jazmin Clemons
The very first time I experienced racism immediately comes to mind. I was around six years old, visiting Six Flags Great America with my family. A little girl walked up to me and said she couldn’t find her mom and needed help. As a kid, I knew there wasn’t much I could do, but I started asking her questions to try to help.
In the middle of that, a woman—who I assume was her mother—walked up, yanked her by the arm, whispered something to her, and walked away. Before she left, she gave me the most disgusted look I have ever seen.
I told my mom what happened. She was visibly upset and vented to the other adults, but no one explained to me the root of the issue. At the time, I didn’t fully understand what had just happened. But as I got older and began unpacking that moment, I realized there was much more to it than my childhood brain could grasp.
I started questioning myself. What makes me so bad? Why did she look at me with such disgust? We were just kids—I was only trying to help. Couldn’t she see that?
Now I know that even when the obvious is clear as day, racist people often see only what they want to see—skin color and difference.
I wish more people understood that racism and bias aren’t always overt. Many acts of racism show up as microaggressions or subconscious beliefs that people don’t even realize they carry. Avoiding conversations about race doesn’t eliminate racism, and teaching children to be “color-blind” erases the very real struggles that minorities face every day.
I wish people would accept racism and bias for what they are. Instead of downplaying them or ignoring them for their own comfort, I wish they would sit in the discomfort, have the hard conversations, and teach themselves and their families how to create safe spaces and advocate for minorities.
As I processed my experiences—and as I watched division, racism, and bias play out in the media—I began to withdraw from white spaces. I attended a predominantly Black high school, went to a historically Black university, and worked in minority-serving elementary schools. But after graduating and taking a deeper look at my own thinking, I realized how many opportunities I was avoiding out of fear.
Integrating myself into white spaces didn’t just change my perspective—it gave me opportunities to challenge others’ perspectives about Black women. I enrolled in a predominantly white institution for graduate school, worked in a predominantly white and affluent elementary school, and advocated for equity wherever I could.
Now, as a six-year educator, no matter where I work, I do my best to teach about all races, to intentionally uplift students who may not see themselves reflected in the material, and to show students that being different should be accepted, allowed, and welcomed—as long as we treat one another with respect, kindness, and love.
As I listen to these stories as a mom and a teacher, my heart breaks. I hate that children and young people—and anyone, for that matter—feel unsafe or invalidated simply for who they are. But I also feel hopeful as I see the younger generation pushing back in ways I didn’t see growing up. I’m encouraged to see others coming alongside them to say, “I see you, I hear you, I believe you. You matter.”
These stories aren’t isolated moments. Research continues to show that racism in childhood can affect mental health, stress levels, and long-term well-being.
In part three, we’ll continue listening and explore what changes when racism is called what it is—and what happens when it isn’t.
