Transcript
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Kathryn Burns (1:43)
This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX and I'm Kathryn Burns. Today we're going to hear stories about being self assured or not being over or under confident. For some people it's just about knowing who you are and who you aren't. That was the case with our first storyteller, Aliza Kasmi. We first met Aliza when she participated in our high school storieslam program which leads after school workshops for students around New York City. We liked her story so much we asked her to develop it for our New York main stage. She was the youngest person in the show by at least 10 years. All the older storytellers were beside themselves with nerves, but everyone noticed that 19 year old Aliza seemed completely relaxed. She was by far the most confident of them all. Here's Eliza Kasme live at the Moth.
Aliza Kasmi (2:31)
So I was 6 years old in the first grade and I was sitting at a table with my three best friends and we were all really similar. All of our moms bought us clothes from the children's place and we all liked to play house during recess and all of our names started with the letter A. There was Ashaya, Amanda, Alicia and Aliza. And we were working on the Icebreaker project of the first grade which our teacher, Ms. Harrington, had assigned to us. And it was going to be self portraits so that we could hang them up on the wall and get to know each other's faces and names. And I was really excited for this project, and I knew it was really special because there were three drafts, and we were working on the final draft, which was going to be colored in. And I was super stoked for this, because over the summer, my mom had bought me this coloring book that taught me all these really great techniques for how to draw properly. And I finally mastered coloring inside of the lines. And I was so excited to show my friends my new skills. I was basically young Picasso. And I also knew this was a special project because we were using oil pastels. And I loved oil pastels because they're really soft. So I would pinch off a little bit and melt it between my fingers. And they were expensive for my public school in New York City. And so each table got one box, and each box had one of each color. So you had to be patient and wait for your color to not be used. And at this point, I had colored in my shirt blue, and the background green. And there was a little tree. And I had drawn in all the features of my face, which the book had taught me to do first. And I draw in my lips and my nose, and I was ready to color in my face. And all of my friends had used the peach oil pastel to color in their face. And since we were basically all the same girl, I figured I would use peach, too. Finally, when it was available, I picked it up, and I started drawing so slowly, going around my lips and my eyes and coloring in all one direction. And I was watching as the oil pastel melt into the paper and my face come alive. And I colored inside of the lines. And when I looked down, it was like I was looking into a mirror. This girl I had just drawn was exactly how I see myself. And I feel my teacher, Ms. Harrington, over my shoulder. And Ms. Harrington loved it when people drew well. And so I was getting ready for her to praise me, to say, aliza, that is the most beautiful self portrait I have ever seen. I'm going to hang it above my desk so everyone who comes in can see it. And instead, Ms. Jill Harrington says, aliza, that's not your color. And I'm confused by this, because I don't understand how colors can belong to people. But before I can find a way to ask her, she's gone to the oil pastel box and has started looking through it. And she doesn't find the color that she's looking for. And so she goes to the crayon bin. Now, every school had this infamous crayon bin that had bits and pieces of wrapped up and gross crayons that have been rolling around in that bin forever. And I never went to the crayon bin. But nonetheless, Ms. Harrington is rummaging through it and she reaches in and she pulls out this little nub of a brown crayon that's unwrapped and gross. And she hands it to me. And I'm still really confused by all of this, but I've noticed my friends are staring at me and my heart is beating really fast and I want this to be over. And so I just grab the crayon and I start coloring in my face. And I'm going in all different directions, except for the fact that wax crayon and oil pastel don't mix together. They don't belong on the same paper. So it doesn't matter how hard I'm pushing because I can't get the crayon to stick. And I'm coloring outside of the lines and. And when I look down at this paper, I'm this grotesque monster that can't decide if she wants to be peach or brown. And I want to beg Ms. Harrington, please don't hang this up. I'll do it all over again. I'll use the colors that you want me to. But before I can find the right word, she's taken my self portrait and put it into a pile with all of my even toned peach friends. And it gets hung up. And that night I go home and I ask my mom why I wasn't allowed to be peach. And she explains it as best as you can to a six year old who's just gone through an identity cris. And she says, you know, I'm not peach and your dad isn't peach, and since you're our daughter, you're not peach either. But this confused me even more because my parents are just like my peach friend's parents. They sound the same, they make the same small talk, but they're not the same. And everyone seems to understand this concept of color and I'm not getting it. And I don't want my mom to think that I'm stupid. And so I don't ask her any further. And I try to not think about it, but I didn't know where I fit and I was stuck in this color limbo. But I finally graduated elementary school and moved on to sixth grade and thought I had left this whole concept of colors behind me. And so on the first day of sixth grade, I was really excited. It was a brand new start and we were all trying to get to know each other by asking questions like where did you go to elementary school? And what's your favorite book? And this one kid comes up to me and he says, what race are you? And I had never been blatantly asked this question before. And so I didn't have a prepared answer. And so I thought back to Ms. Harrington in that brown crayon. So I told him I'm brown. And he gets this confused look on his face and he says, what do you mean you're brown? Brown isn't a race. And I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe that I had finally said I'm brown. And it started and then this little six year old girl deep inside of me gets really angry and then I get really angry and then I'm screaming at him and I said, you know what, if I say I'm brown, then that's it. I'm Brown. And he never spoke to me again, which was fine because I had finally found the words to stand up for myself and I'd finally come to terms with who I was. I want to say that was the end of it. That because I was okay with who I was, that I never had to stand up or defend my race again. But that just was wasn't true. I was growing up in post 911 New York City, where being Brown put me in this category of others. And I had been questioned about who I was many times after that. And I had to reaffirm over and over that I'm brown. I'm brown. I'm brown because I've worked so hard to love the skin that I'm in and nothing anyone can say will take that away from me. And today if you asked me to draw a self portrait of myself, I would draw a confident young woman who's proud of her Afghan and Pakistani heritage, who is a proud American. And I would find the most beautiful soft oil pastel to color in my face. No one would have to tell me to pick it up. And it would be my first choice. Thank you.
