I could hear the patter of bare feet on the dirt and the shouts of children and the splash that means puddles to clean up afterwards. And I recognized all those sounds.

It was the place I was in that made the difference.

The unpaved road was so dirty, dust shifted onto the windows of the car. With the occasional hut we passed in the village, I saw hills and dirt. Everything was brown. It seemed there were more dogs than people. My mother and father warned me not to pet them for fear of diseases or, simply, the hostility of the animals. As we ventured further into the remote area, we saw staring faces. If the villagers smiled, I did not see teeth. They wore dark and dusty clothes as they worked around the fields or helped with the many tasks they were given. The unending road eventually turned into a compound and ultimately, a school building- it was time. 

I have 2 nephews and one niece who I have babysat often in the past, I love children because they have such a skewed perception of the world around them that makes for interesting conversation between us. A couple of months ago I watched my five-year-old niece because I was leaving soon and wanted to spend individual time with each of them. When I was watching my niece a conversation of age and being grown up came up, she didn't quite comprehend how much older I was than her. The conversation went like this

Amarah: "Meghan when I start school, will I go to school with you?"

Me: "No, because I'm in College now, and you're in elementary school."

Amarah: "Oh. How come I can't go to school with you though I'm big like you?"

“Never believe people online, every nice person you talk to in that chat room will coerce you into meeting up in real life and turn out to be a 60 year old pedophile.”

I am working at McDonald as a part time job in my home country. As McDonald is a restaurant, I have encountered plenty of customers. Above all, there was an old man who left a strong impression on me. One day, he came into my counter. It seemed that it was the first time for him to come to McDonald because he was taking quite long time to choose what he wanted to order, so I asked what kind of food he wanted to have. He told me he wanted something cold and yummy, so I suggested him an ice-cream and he accepted it. He was surprised at the reasonable price which was about 80 to 90 cent in US currency and the good taste. I cannot forget his great pleasant smile. After an hour, what was more, he came back and ordered another ice-cream! He said, “It was so yummy.

On a Saturday afternoon, my dad drives our Honda Odyssey down the quiet, safe street. My mom, brothers, and sister sit in the car with us. Orthodox Jewish men talk together and their wives push strollers as they walk home from Sabbath services. Here in Amberley Village, there are big lawns and lots of white Jews. On the other side of the train tracks, in Roselawn, there are a lot of black people, some “prostitutes”, and sometimes gunshots at night. When it snows, there is line between Amberley, where the streets have been cleared, and Roselawn, where the streets are still covered in snow.

In high school I volunteered for the Orphanage Club at my school. I wanted to give back to the community and I also liked working with kids, so I thought that this would be a fun experience.

We were paired up with a child whom we met once or twice a month. I was expecting to get along with this kid right away. I didn’t anticipate it to be as difficult as it was. My kid was four years old, was called Justin and was not open to meeting new people at all. He constantly threw tantrums and never wanted to hold my hand when we went on outings to amusement parks or to zoos. It was difficult for both me and all the chaperones because he was not only creating a lot of extra work, but also threatening his own safety.

Identity Memo

Han Yu

Even before I attended public high school in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I knew the statistical racial makeup of Cambridge Rindge and Latin. This, to me, is a perfect indication of the atmosphere surrounding race in my hometown. Our numbers were something to be proud of—something we had drilled into the minds of kids should they ever be quizzed on “diversity issues” by family members or friends from neighboring towns (even now, I struggle to suppress the urge to include the numbers, as if it could prove something about me, about where I come from). Caught up in White Cambridge Liberalism and committed to studying large-scale, historical examples of racism and injustice, I conveniently ignored the everyday injustices that were happening all around me.

            The initial email with simply a name, a dorm, and a room number. The sporadic emails full of bits and pieces of important communication strewn throughout the summer months. The FaceBook stalking. None of which truly prepared me for meeting my roommate.