Transcript
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Major Jackson (1:00)
Hi, it's Major. The slowdown is on a break right now, but we'll be back soon with a new host. In the meantime, we're bringing you some of the best episodes from our archives. Today we revisit an episode from Tracy K. Smith's time at the helm. Enjoy.
Tracy K. Smith (1:25)
I'm Tracy Case, and this is the Slowdown. A dozen years ago, when we were on the market to buy our first home together, my husband, who is white, thought nothing of wearing a hoodie and sneakers to open houses. I teased him that he could afford to look just any old way, but not me. As a black woman, I anticipated the possibility that some real estate broker might see me and say to himself, this is out of her price range, and I wanted to circumvent that bias. Such strategizing is a burden and an inconvenience, but it sometimes does what it is intended to do, which is to short circuit a stereotype, rationally speaking. I know that another person's bigoted thinking is their problem, not mine, but it's hard to leave it at that. It's hard to accept that sometimes my race causes another person to jump to conclusions about what I know or have or deserve and what I don't. Living in a world where this is the trend, not the exception, can make a person self conscious. I've bought things I haven't needed simply to demonstrate that they are within my grasp. And then I felt foolish, as though, when all is said and done, the very stereotype I'd set out to defy has gotten in the way of me living my life. Dressing up or practicing conspicuous consumption aren't real solutions to the problem of being pigeonholed dialogue, education and friendships with people of different backgrounds. Those things do more to make real change happen. Today's poem Stop Looking at My Last Name like that by Michael Torres calls out biases affecting members of the Latinx community. Stop Looking at My Last Name like that by Michael Torres Nothing in my life was crooked or broken or potholed, not haggard or tired, not poor and unfortunate, nor merely lucky. No one's father returned from work with calloused palms every evening. No one got to where they were in life with the help of a new to the area teacher who stopped at nothing until our dreams came to fruition. Please. Our parents paid for those university tours. On weekends we went out like families do the zoo, science museums. Summers my parents said I love you, leaving me at camp where I earned badges spinning twigs until sparks spilled out out in September. No one came to class with torn or tattered clothes. No one got beat up for being less than Please. Boyhood was a ballad our parents sang when they bathed our brothers. No one became what this world carved out of desperation when it rained the we got picked up from school at home a change of clothes sat on our beds. Yes, we all had our own beds. Yes, each of us had our own rooms as well. We made boats out of egg cartons. There were no gunshots or helicopters to stop us from sailing those ships down the not so flooded street. With the world ahead, we opened our small yellow umbrellas. A sudden burst of sunlight. We walked right into.
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