A whitewashed cross

I grew up in (and have since moved back to) a small-ish town in the middle of North Carolina. While I don't consider my area to be the "deep South," it is definitely in the "Bible Belt." For those who don't know, the "Bible Belt" encompasses the southern part of the United States where conservative Christianity shapes almost every aspect of life. Growing up in this environment, there was no way for me to even realize that this kind of culture was not the norm for everyone. It shaped most of my ideals and morals at the time. On the surface, the Christianity that molded me and the people that made up the "body of Christ" were good, kind, and moral. But as I grew up and started to develop ideas and beliefs of my own, the dark underbelly of this "body" started to peek out. Why did I feel guilty about being a normal teenager? Why was I embarrassed and ashamed of my body? Why did the people who claimed to be Christians inside the church then turn around and commit "sinful" acts outside of church? Why were these same people full of hatred and bias towards others who were good and kind people?* At the age of 16, I was full of doubt. But how could I tell my God-fearing parents (and thankfully not the kind of people mentioned above) that I didn't want to attend church twice a week anymore? Fast forward two years to when I left for college; despite going to a historically Baptist university (WFU--go Deacs!), it was only then that I finally felt freedom from the church. But even then, it took me two more years to break away mentally and spiritually with no residual feelings of guilt and remorse. 

Now that part of my cultural background has been established, let's actually travel back in time again to my elementary school years. I went to a public school that was somewhat diverse; the population was probably about 50% White, 30% Black, and 20% Hispanic (I understand that these are overgeneralizations of the variety of people I attended school with). I had friends of all different backgrounds. My very first friend in Kindergarten was Cynthia. I was immediately drawn to her on the first day of school because she colored her flower the deepest, darkest shade of pink that I had ever seen from a set of crayons. And she colored in the lines so well! I was so impressed. One of the first boys I ever liked was Antonio in 5th grade. He was funny and nice to me. My best friend that same year was Sharisse. She was sassy and confident and loved to laugh. None of these friends had the same color skin as me, because (thankfully) I had not yet picked up on the biases that surely surrounded me. My parents were (and are) lovely and kind people, but growing up in the South just like me, they have their own biases just like we all do. I distinctly remember being told I could not date Black people, because “What would other people think?” That was the first time I ever remember thinking about the color of someone’s skin in a negative context. I was just a kid, wanting to make friends. I was interested in different cultures; I was fascinated with Native American history and I loved learning about Hispanic cultures even then. My favorite dolls were the American Girl dolls Addie, who represented the horrific history of the people who were enslaved, and Josephina, the Mexican-American trying to make her way. It was only the outside influences who changed any sort of perspective I had, and I’ve been fighting those biases and perspectives ever since.

Flash back forward to the present. I am back in my hometown, working as an elementary Spanish teacher who is White, teaching students of all colors. I recognize the irony of my career choice. I am teaching a language and cultures that are not my own, and I often feel “imposter syndrome,” despite the fact that I love and adore the cultures I have experienced and learned about. I think that part of the reason I wanted to teach Spanish in the first place was to try to combat the alienation of and racism towards people of different backgrounds. I thought that if I could show children the wonders of other cultures, then maybe they’d be less inclined to lean towards the beliefs of their parents and this southern society we live in. The older I get and the more I learn, I try my hardest to not only recognize my privilege in being able to do so, but to also use my privilege to hopefully make some sort of difference. I know I have built in biases–it would be impossible for me to not–but I try to continually challenge and question myself on why I have them and how I can combat them. So my question for the cosmos is this: is it possible to grow up with no built in biases? Is it only outside influences that shape us? Or does some of it come from within?