My name is Derrick Robinson. I am an eighteen year old black male. I’ve had a life of nothing but prejudice and struggle. I have no shame in the person that I am but I’m tired of hearing that America has come so far regarding the world of racism and prejudice. I attend a predominately white school in New York City. In history, all we do is talk about slavery as if blacks were the only people discriminated against. I had been talking with my teacher Ms. Monroe after a big class discussion that got to me and decided that I’d explore history for myself. I had this idea that I’d show my class just how much discrimination occurred in history that most don’t even acknowledge was present. I had this idea to bring in a couple friends I knew. I had known them for some time and I knew that they could brilliantly show my peers just how strong one race could feel towards another. I had planned to present next class. I couldn’t wait.
March 2nd, Class has arrived and Derrick has arranged for the speakers to present in the auditorium.
Lights up! There he is standing in front of the class ready to analyze the photograph posted on the board in front of him. He is the great grandson of a white western farmer and has grown up hearing nothing but negative things about the Native American people. He had been given a week to prepare what it was that he wanted to say. Derrick has told him not to hold back and to try to speak as if no one else was listening. He caught one last glimpse of the photograph and then he began.
This is the world of savagery. This is the place where the tribes of the Native Americans roam free. Within these trees one would find their kingdom. They act as the river does. They are forever flowing free hitting the rocks and making obscure turns into a place in which only they could know. They are one with the nature that surrounds them. They have the ability to scream out into the mountains in a language that only they could understand. They are one. This is the place where they practice their own culture and live with the same traditions that have been passed down from generation to generation. They do nothing apart. They adapt to every surrounding that life seems to throw at them and yet they still disgust me. I’d rather see an Indian laying dead in those mountaintops rather than screaming out at them. I’d rather see them act as a tree does, standing upright and dignified rather than flowing free as the water does. I’d rather see them making their kingdom in homes rather than this disgusting nature. I want to see them become a civilized people. I know that it is up to my people to save the men inside these Indians. With the right clothing, haircut and English lesson these Indians can go from savages to respectable men. I see them going from this place to the classrooms of schools where they will become Americanized in every sense of the word. It is not their fault that they were born blank yet grew up in a world a savagery and therefore learned to speak and act as a savage does. Actually, I don’t quite know who to blame but I do know that they are in need of a great deal of help which I and my fellow men are willing to give. This is their world. This is a world that I will erase from their memory leaving them with only the thought of my culture and the morals that I possess. I will become their hero, saving them from a life that will lead nowhere except into the forest of destruction.
Lights out! Silence covered the room. Everyone was contemplating the words that had been spoken. Little did they know, I wasn’t done yet. My girlfriend’s dad was Indian and he had agreed to speak considering he felt so strongly about the subject and admired what I was doing. Well, here we go. Lights up! Action!
I am looking at a place where “civilized” behavior is encouraged. All applicants to this world must speak proper English, dress in “nice” clothing and my goodness if you hair is too long then you certainly have a problem on your hands. But who is that man? A farmer perhaps. He looks as though he is simply another white farmer from the West. HE looks as though he is simply one of the same men that tried to strip my people of their own roots. How dare you call my people uncivilized! I simply cannot understand how a group of men who I know for a fact have gone through hardships themselves could want to impose burden on another group of people. Is my being an Indian really a mistake? Is it a sin of some kind? NO! Judging a person based on their appearance is the only sin I see. When I look at this photograph I cannot help but feel a hatred for that man sitting their smiling. It looks as if he is smiling at me. Why is that a bad thing? It is because behind that smile I see the sheers that were meant for shaving my head. I see that man standing there with a suit telling me I’ll look much better in this. I see nothing but hatred for my native people. This is all that I see. That is the man who stripped me of my native beads and the animal furs that I chose to wear around my body. He is the one who sent my people off to that degrading Carlisle Indian School. He is the reason why my people practice Ghost dancing. I see a man that will one day be beneath the hay that surrounds him. MY people will rule over him and show him what it really means to be “civilized”.
As so there it was. I felt as though I had truly accomplished something and that I had taught my fellow classmates a valuable lesson. It seemed to me as if their eyes had been opened and that was my goal from the start. From then on class dicussions fot more interesting and everyone seemed to have obtained more of an open mind. All was well.
Photo links: http://www.oac.cdlib.org/ark:/13030/tf9v19p7d3/?brand=oac4
http://www.cowboyshowcase.com/images/articles/buckrake157%20(3).jpg
Other Sources: Michael Johnson, Reading the American Past, 3rd ed. Vol II. Boston: Bedford, 2005.
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