Long Island Summers: (Not) Dealing with Race
While growing up in a predominantly White neighborhood, I have been the benefactor of relationships that have allowed me to recognize my privileges as a White cis-gendered female. Perhaps by no fault of their own, people in my town remain insular because most never leave. There was a clear distinction between those who grew up here or what we called “natives,” and those who relocated from other towns, particularly those who were non-White. With each passing year, many of these long-established Long Islanders become infuriated with the rising number of “outsiders” that planted their roots in their towns.
As a child, I was part of the group of people whose parents were fortunate enough to own a second home. I knew this was a privilege at an early age, knowing I had not one but two homes. The local children nicknamed me “the summer girl,” as I always left before the beginning of the school year. A great deal of my summer was spent riding my bike with the neighborhood children. We were allowed to roam free throughout our town, except for an adjacent town that was deemed off limits. Although it was never explicitly stated, it was understood that members of that community were not desirable companions, as they were predominantly “outsiders.” That is, they were people of diverse backgrounds which represented a threat to our safety and way of life. The overwhelming presence of Whiteness was normalized and taken-for-granted until we were confronted with difference.
When we made Long Island our permanent home, I started witnessing various incidents of explicit and implicit racism at school. For instance, in high school, I remember classmates driving to school in cars sporting Confederate flags. Even at a young age, I knew that was incredibly stupid, but I never actually stood up and told anyone to take them down. In the moment, I chose to ignore it and just scoffed at the people who did this. My teachers made it seem as if racism happened a long time ago and that it no longer existed. I was never instructed that racism would be evident in so many complex ways. Even my parents’ actions reflected bias. I was not allowed to socialize outside of school or date kids that did not live in our town. At the time, I excused or rationalized their reasoning as a means to protect me from spending time in places with higher crime rates or I thought, “They are busy with other commitments and don’t have the time to drive me so far.” However, deep down, I was aware that it had everything to do with who the kids were—non-White “outsiders”.
I thought of myself as a non-racist empathetic person. After all, several of my relatives had married outside of our racial and ethnic group, and I had friends of diverse backgrounds. Yet, I went freely where I wanted and listened to my parents about who I should or should not hang out with. I made decisions not to confront my own biases because there was no reason to. I was ignorant about race and never had to worry about my racial identity because it wasn't a matter of life or death. There was so much I still had to reckon with.
At the end of my last semester of college, I spent six months living in the Bronx and working with public elementary school children. In these six months, I learned more about race than I ever did in my time growing up and going to school. I was forced to confront my Whiteness. I realized that staying in my college town, with similar characteristics of my home town, did not challenge me to look beyond what I was taught was right and wrong in this world. It did not teach me to be uncomfortable with the privileges I was given and question the benefits I've had in this life. But sitting in front of the classroom and being the only white person in the room gave me the unpleasant realization that my race matters. I was in a space where I felt discomfort because for the first time, I was the “outsider.
Growing up, race was hard to discuss in my community in a way that wasn't offensive. I felt uncomfortable speaking up for myself and questioning the things happening around me. I wondered why we did not speak about race at all, pretending like nothing was happening. I had become blind to the subtle, racist acts happening right before my eyes. Racism is why I wasn’t allowed to play outside with children who looked different than me. Racism is judging a town based on the people who live there because they look different. Racism is accepting emblems and images of flags representing hate, telling children to be proud of a symbol that has allowed acts of violence and discrimination. Racism is ignoring the irony of placing a “Long Island Native” bumper sticker on the back of your car, when Long Island itself historically was stolen land from Native Americans for white communities to dominate.
Racism is ignoring the irony of placing a “Long Island Native” bumper sticker on the back of your car, when Long Island itself historically was stolen land from Native Americans for white communities to dominate.
I used to be the woman who carried her bag in front of her in more ethnic communities. I used to be the teacher who sometimes silenced students of Color who were being too loud. I used to be the person who assumed having Black friends made me a non-racist. As a child, I kept quiet, I listened to everyone around me and never questioned what I was told was right and wrong. And coming to terms with being a White ally has been a tense process of unpacking years of generational baggage. When I sit down at the family Sunday dinner table, I am vocal when I know what is being said is problematic and racially biased. I acknowledge the privileges I am afforded as a White woman and recognize that race was never of concern to me growing up. I no longer shy away from conversations about race, regardless of how uncomfortable they might be.
I think about my predominately white town as more than an anomaly. It is representative of how the United States is organized. My story isn’t unique, it’s just pervasive. I’m wondering if White kids should be going out into the world only understanding themselves. I’m wondering if by excluding White kids from the conversation of race, we will ever start to repair race relations and the racism that is evident in our school systems. I think back to my childhood and now understand that comfort isn't a privilege, sitting in discomfort with feelings you never had to deal with is the better place to be. It's a sign of growth.
Life has been a constant whirlwind of uncovering things about myself, society, politics, entertainment, and the job industry. Like many people my age, I've lived through a variety of painful moments in American History in the last 20 years. I've learned more within a year of living through the twin pandemics of COVID-19 and racial unrest than I have in the full twenty-six years I've been on this Earth. As a woman. As a white person. As a millennial. My learning is not done.
Ashley Marron is receiving her M.A as a Literacy Specialist at Teachers College, Columbia University, with the class of 2020. In 2016 she earned her B.S.E. in Early Childhood and Childhood Education from the State University of New York at Fredonia. She has worked in several different districts across New York City as a substitute teacher and plans to be full time teaching in the fall. Ashley has a deep passion for literacy equity, the arts, and social justice. Ashley grew up in Mattituck, New York, on the East Coast of Long Island, where her family currently resides with their dachshund Harry. She lives in Hamilton Heights in New York City.
