By Shannon Lukens.
STAND (Steamboat Team to disrupt Antisemitism and Discrimination) sponsored an essay contest for students who shared stories about discrimination and bias. Five essays were chosen and awarded prizes. the essays were coordinated by the Student Programming and Support Committee, led by Jay Hamric, Jenny Shea, and Brian Krill. Reactions can be shared at STANDsteamboat@gmail.com
Here is more on STAND:
- Vision: Routt won’t STAND for Hate
- Mission: STAND works to disrupt/fight hate and promote anti-discrimination through education, policy change, partnerships and positively influencing the next generation.
- Central Messages:
- Hate is a problem in Routt County
- It’s in our character to care about our neighbors
- Everyone has a role to play in fighting hate and discrimination
Here are the five essays.
DUKE FITZGERALD
As soon as I get home from a long day of third grade, I plop down on the couch and dig a novel out of my backpack, barely remembering to greet my dad as I stick my nose into my worn copy of Percy Jackson. I must have read the book a hundred times by that point, but even as I can recite the next few sentences, I’m sucked into the story. I’m only pulled out of it when I glance out the window. Several kids from my grade are playing in the park behind my backyard. They laugh as they scramble up the trunks of trees together. I catch my dad looking at me and return to my book, turning another page stained with something– tea or hot chocolate or whatever else I was drinking when I last read it, a testament to the long-standing love I have for the story. Later that night, bundled in the safety of my galaxy-themed blanket, I crack open the book again and read under the soft glow of a flashlight I store under my pillow for this exact purpose. I try to become absorbed in the characters and their battles against monsters in a world far from mine. Despite my attempts to ignore it, my ears still unconsciously strain to hear the voices of my mom and dad through the walls of my childhood bedroom, and I catch a couple of words of their conversation. “Worried… social development… friends…” I burrow deeper under my covers, now fully nested into my bed, and immerse myself in the words typed on well-worn pages until I finally fall asleep.
I watch from the box as a girl passes the ball to her friend. I have to squint to see their faces, both because of the rays of sun piercing my eyes and my growing need for a pair of glasses. My team is on the other side of the field, fighting to try to score a goal. I’m growing bored waiting for my coach to blow the whistle indicating a break so I can finally relieve the itching in my throat with a gulp of warm water. She does, and I jog to the sideline, making a beeline for my bag. I rummage through it for an eternity– I never seem to have the time to empty it of the trash and (very smelly) athletic gear. My fingers curl around my prize triumphantly, and I walk with it to a shady spot under a tree to savor it. As I peel off the wrapper, I can hear the girls on my team talking; they’re joking about things that happened to them at school that day, or what their parents said before they left for practice. I chew on the chocolate and granola and wonder why I can’t seem to hold a conversation with my peers. I don’t understand why I feel so different from the girls, why there’s seemingly a chasm between me and them. I’m tired of thinking about it, so I take another bite of my bar and watch as a yellow leaf falls onto my lap from the tree.
I’m losing cornhole to a boy I just learned the name of when a supervisor asks me, “Is everything okay with you in the tent? Celeste forgot to ask.” I’m a week into a summer program I worked all of April to get into, laboring for weeks to create the perfect application. I was accepted and now finally feeling at home academically. It’s a tradition in the program to spend the first weekend camping, and so that morning we had all filed into a bus and driven 3 hours from the CU Denver campus to Buena Vista, where we lumped our bags into the big tents we were sharing and ran to the zipline course. The sun was setting now, and although I had talked a big game about my success in cornhole (mostly against my ten-year-old little brother), I was several points behind my opponent. The supervisor’s words halted the laughter tumbling out of my mouth, and for a second I was worried she’d say it, and the look would flash over the boys’ (Mark’s- we had done part of the zipline course together, despite my fear of heights) face. I was very familiar with the burrowed eyebrows, pursing lips, and slight squint directed at me when people realized I was transgender. She didn’t say anything else, thankfully, and I told her I was fine, thank you, and went back to my game. Mark asked me what that was about, and I told him a half-truth, that I had a health issue and she was just checking in about it. I fell asleep late that night, after hours of talking with the boys in my tent, and pretended for a minute nothing was separating me from them.
Coming to terms with being trans took me a long time. It was half a year before I told anyone about it (my parents don’t count; they’d always been very perceptive and knew something was different almost immediately, even though they didn’t receive confirmation for several weeks). I don’t talk about it that much in general, even with my close friends and family. I know it’s not the case, but I always feel exposed when I do, like someone’s pointing out the part of me that’s different from them. I prefer to be known for other things, like my favorite song or the painting I just finished. I guess my writing this is proof that I’m better at talking about it now. I’m aware that my identity as a trans person doesn’t remove any of the other traits that I have, but sometimes it feels like if I do share it, it’s all people will see me for. Despite my reservations, I have become much more confident in myself and my place in the world since I was a nine-year-old, spending all of my time in my house. I have friends with the same interests as me, who I skate with, talk to about Star Wars, and who I know see me below the surface.
LYLA BAKER
Grandmother’s Internment By Lyla Baker
My grandma’s hands are pale, soft, delicate, like the feathers of the swans that bathe in the lake by her retirement home, swimming in lazy circles and puffing out their wings into glorious white arcs when the breeze ruffles their plumage. Her eyes are tired. They’re tired like they’ve seen too many wailing babies, too many soldiers pointing guns, too many nights made sleepless by the beating of the wind against cheap metal barracks that were buried in the middle of the desert. Her smile is full of sorrow- sorrow for the families separated, the mothers torn away from fathers, the husbands dragged away from wives, the children playing with rags from once-dolls, the dirt caking their knees because someone, somewhere said that their eyes were too narrow, their hair was too black, their skin was too yellow to be American.
My father warned me she doesn’t like to talk about it. We piece together her story based on the scraps she lets slip. She was separated from her father and forced to live in California with a stepmother she hated. She was just a kid. My father also tells me that she doesn’t speak Japanese anymore, that she hasn’t spoken it in seventy years, and I think to myself, this country has taken so much from her. When will it ever give it back? Names on a plaque next to a memorial in Washington, D.C. aren’t enough, and they will never be enough to replace what she lost, what she suffered, what she saw, what they all saw.
I say they because this country has not only taken the Asian away from my grandma but from me as well. I am one-quarter Japanese and three-quarters white, and when I tell people they’re always surprised. I don’t bear the narrow eyes or the black hair or the skin of my father and grandmother. I look like a white girl who lived out her childhood in a rich upper-class ski town. When I have to fill out my race on a survey or application, I hesitate. It says “check as many as apply”, but do I deserve to check “East Asian” as well as “caucasian”? I’ve never spoken a word of Japanese in my life, I don’t live Japanese, I don’t look Japanese, and I have a white name. I didn’t spend part of my childhood in an internment camp, I’ve never been discriminated against or bullied for my Asian heritage, and I’ve never been perceived as anything other than white.
I have empathy for my grandmother. I have to feel empathy for her because she was the Other; she had to face the horrors of being “different”. I don’t feel like the internment camps are my story, or my people’s story. And yet the facts are there, in my DNA: they are my people, their story is my story. So why don’t I feel like it? That is mixed-race, or at least my perception of it- to be part of a culture and yet exiled from it, to belong in name but not in spirit, to be connected by blood but not by mind. I am not white. I am not Japanese. It is like being stranded on a boat between two islands, the current pushing you away from both. So while my grandma is certainly the Other, I am a different kind of Other; I am the Other with no home, no place to perch, no group I am a part of, and no identity. I am hidden, I am invisible, I am separated from the world and from the two parts of myself. The divides between races hurt everyone, create a conflict with and within everyone- even a white girl and her grandmother who will no longer speak the language of her home.
VANESSA AVITIA
A Tapestry of Aspirations By Vanessa Perez
I am Latina. My mouth speaks Spanglish. My heart beats with the colors of my flags. I am from here and from there. My dad came to this country to create a better life for his family and his future. My mom was born here but raised in Mexico. My parents have created a life for me where I have learned to honor and love both of my cultures. My parents’ story reflects the American Dream, full of hard work and the pursuit of a brighter future. Unfortunately, this idea is not easy for everyone, and for many that dream will never become reality. Sometimes the doors to success are closed for people, and I witnessed this sad reality on the day my dad received his citizenship.
This past summer, my mom, dad, younger sister, and I traveled to the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services Building (USCIS) in Denver so that my dad could take his naturalization test to become a U.S. citizen. Everyone’s anxiety was rising and my own heart was racing, but to reduce my dad’s stress level, I said nothing. Sitting in the parking lot, palms sweating, I observed as my dad reviewed his notes. We sat in the car for a few minutes watching groups of people speaking all sorts of languages walk out of the building with American flags and big smiles, an indicator they had passed the citizenship test. I prayed, hoping that would be my family.
It was finally time to enter the dull gray-brown government building. Officers kindly greeted us at metal detectors, where we had to take off our shoes and accessories before proceeding. We then were directed to an elevator that took us to the second floor. The metal doors opened and a wide variety of people sat in blue chairs facing us. A sign in front of us warned, “Phone use strictly prohibited.” We took a seat towards the back and waited patiently for them to call my dad’s name. The room was silent, and I felt like everyone could hear my heart pounding. My eyes wandered, and I noticed an officer in the corner who seemed unbothered. He watched his computer never looking up once. Officers kept coming in and out of the room’s four mysterious doors, calling people’s names, and leading them down long hallways into additional doors, like a never-ending maze.
Fear and anxiety grew within me, my thoughts circling my head when they were cut shortly. Suddenly a short, red-headed lady called out, my dad’s name. He got up quickly and left with her. About forty seemingly eternal minutes passed, and not once did I touch my phone, as my mom, sister, and I waited silently, nervously, and impatiently. At long last the same lady returned, calling out, our names. For a hot second, I had forgotten my own name. We all sprang up and as we walked over to her, she smiled and told us my dad was officially a U.S. Citizen. All of our eyes filled with tears of joy and pride. She led us into the office space where we witnessed my dad take The Oath. He received a small American flag and a certificate. After decades of living and working in the U.S., he had achieved the American Dream. He was officially a citizen.
Ready to celebrate as a family, we walked back to the elevators. An older couple, probably in their early fifties, entered behind us, and the mood in the elevator immediately changed. The man was dressed in a patterned shirt and black dress pants, and the woman wore a long, dark-colored floral skirt and black shirt. They did not carry an American flag. They were not smiling. They whispered between themselves in Spanish. He carefully held his document folder under his arm as his eyes started to water. My dad looked into the man’s eyes and said to him, “No te rindas,” meaning don’t give up.
At this moment, I wanted to cry both of joy and sadness–joy for my father but deep empathy for this older couple who might share a similar story to my family’s but who had a special opportunity, at least at this point, closed on them. This man must have left his country the same way my dad did, and for similar reasons. Although they were dressed up they carried the weight of an unspoken sorrow. As they faced the cruel reality of returning home with news that would bring tears and sadness to their family, I couldn’t help but share their silent misery. The shared struggles, the common pursuit for a brighter future, and the profound disappointment in unmet expectations created an unspoken bond between our two families, separated by circumstance yet united in resiliency, hope, and empathy. I thought about how many had left that building with little flags and how many didn’t.
That day, I learned that the American flag was not just a symbol of freedom. It symbolized the American Dream and those who had left and will continue to leave their home country for a better future. Holding that tiny flag became a way to say we made it. We achieved what we left our countries for. I don’t think many look at the flag and realize the stories, experiences, cultures, identities, and rich histories it holds. Empathy within the American Dream involves recognizing the diverse experiences people face to pursue this ideation. It breaks my heart that people who work so hard under the American flag face systemic barriers, inequities, economic hardships, discrimination, feelings of not belonging, and limited opportunities and resources. Whenever I look at the American flag, I do so with a sense of appreciation, understanding, and deep recognition of the sacrifices made by people who’ve come here to create a better life. I hope that their hearts will one day beat with the vibrant hues of their flags.
WILL HALL
Local Antisemitism By Will Hall
As a teammate and player who cares so much about my team, I didn’t realize how closely the Nazi ideology in Steamboat impacted the mindsets and people I spent so much time alongside. One of my teammates (whose name I won’t say for privacy) was wearing tape on his injured hand, and a Menorah was drawn on his wrist. He only started drawing these when swastikas started being scrawled on walls and seared into tables. My Jewish teammate was being impacted by the negative actions of the student body, and in the blink of an eye and a drop of my stomach, swastikas on benches went from out of my control to something I needed to help stop. The fact that problems in his life affected him on the soccer field upset me. As an athlete, I feel free on the field, and it made me feel that he was restricted. After ensuring he was doing okay, I realized this problem isn’t ancient history. Modern-day Nazism was impacting people I cared about, and that put fear in my mind and distress in my heart.
Another teammate of mine spent the majority of his life living in Israel. He studied Judaism more than anyone I had ever met, and being not as close with him, I didn’t know how much he had been affected by the Israel war and anti-Semitism in Steamboat. I clearly remember him looking at his phone on the bus and rubbing his forehead in distress due to the Israel conflict. At practice, he brought it up at a water break. Another Jewish teammate brought it up while we were watching a film. This problem is constantly on his mind, only adding to stress and fear. I felt that I, too, was taking a hit. As a team, we needed to support our teammate whose birthplace was suffering. I realized that this problem isn’t ancient history. Modern-day Nazism was impacting people I cared about, and that put anger in my heart and sorrow in my soul.
The last experience that changed my view about anti-Semitism in our community was an assembly at school addressing the issue as a whole. People from my community were taking leaps of courage to open our eyes. Of the people who spoke, one spokesperson and teacher in particular left the most significant impact on me. He talked about his family in the Holocaust, the people who helped them, and the way they fought every day of their lives. The students in our school watched him practically reach tears in our gym, purely at remembering what happened 80 years ago. I say this out of empathy, not out of shame. Among the 2-3 people who spoke, I’m hoping all of my peers felt as much of a shift as I did. This assembly was the final switch in making Jewish hate and violence feel like a modern problem, not just something that happened decades ago. At last, I realized that this problem isn’t ancient history. Modern-day Nazism was impacting my community within our town, and that put a deep sadness in my heart.
Nazism breaching the security of our town should be causing harm to everybody. As a high school student being so closely affiliated with victims of hate crimes, I feel like our community morals are being questioned. As a community, we are supposed to hold each other up and together, not break each other down. As a community, each and every person is important, even more so when they are victims of assault and emotional fear. It hurts to watch my selfless community become so hateful and destructive, and I can only hope that others see the dire situation we have in our community.
KYRA KISER
More Than A Label By Kyra Kiser
I was separated from my mom and brought to the back of the building to a steel, white door by the staff kitchen. Through the door was an all-white room the size of a detention cell. I sat down, and the lady took the only seat across from me. She explained the rules, and we began. Each card flipped in sequences, like a pattern, “1,2,3 flip, 1,2,3 flip”. Until I got stuck, “1,2,3,4,5,6..” The lady would intervene, saying as sweetly as she could,
“Hey, it’s ok. Why don’t we move on to another card?
I nodded, forgot about my failure, and again “flip.” There was another card in front of me. This went on for hours; my eyes grew heavy from the bioluminescent light on top of my head. I soon realized this was not something every kid had to go through. Afterward, the doctor whispered to my mother as if I couldn’t hear.
“Your daughter has dyslexia,” he said.
I did not know what this meant right then, but later I discovered it meant I was different.
My world changed with my diagnosis. Teachers gave me baby books to read while other kids got to read novels about dragons and other fantasy worlds. I had to miss out on class activities to sit in a room and look through more cards. Tutoring and daily school life frustrated me with my inability to do what my classmates could do easily. As the school year progressed, kids would start to catch on to how I was getting different materials. It was like being outed. I became so embarrassed whenever a kid made the connection that I wasn’t on their “level.” I was treated as slower, less capable, or less mature, all based on a label put on me, not who I was.
When I entered the third grade, however, I was put into a school for kids with learning disabilities. This school was the motivation I needed to continue learning. Now, I was exactly like everyone else around me. We all had learning disabilities; we all were dubbed different from proper functioning children. But there was one thing they taught us that I never understood, and that was the advantages of my disability. How could this be an advantage? It felt like a curse to be forever disabled.
I am a senior now, and it has taken me six years to realize what the advantages of my disability are. I have tutored a 7-year-old boy with dyslexia; I’ve been in the highest writing groups in my school and honors every year till now. My advantage is that I see people as individuals, not groups sectioned off because of their capabilities, race, gender, class, or “differences.” My disability gives me the perspective that we are all different and we are all the same. It’s not just people with disabilities who struggle in school or with learning. Everyone, no matter who, has a different brain and a unique learning process. Because of the understanding that my disability has given me, I can feel empathy towards everyone who has come into my life so far. My dyslexia has made me the person I am today, and even though I still struggle in daily life, get frustrated, and am a bit slower than others, I wouldn’t trade my advantage for anything.
STAND is also hosting a gathering for the Routt County Latin Community in Steamboat Springs. It is from 5-6:30 p.m. Wednesday, Jan. 24 in Library Hall at Bud Werner Memorial Library. The discussion will focus on the experiences of Latino/Latina/Latinx residents of Routt County and how to better support a more inclusive community for all.