I was six years old when my family moved to Ipiales, a small Andean town in Nariño, Colombia. It was for a very brief period of time, but one that I remember very clearly. Ipiales harbours pieces of my life that are stamped on my memory. Some of those pieces were sharp as a knife and evidently essential to the woman I became, so I have revisited Ipiales in my mind seemingly millions of times trying to make sense of them and the wounds they opened. Some others come to mind only sporadically, and I let them come and go without much introspection.
Whether blatant or noiseless, my life experiences in Ipiales have walked my path with me. They have moulded my character in many ways and have taught me difficult lessons about human nature. They have made me weak and strong, fearful and fearless, wounded and whole. Today, when I am deliberately scanning my memories to unveil the genesis of my perception of “white”, Ipiales resurfaces as the stage for moments that appeared innocuous, but that, unbeknownst to me at the time, reflected a fundamental aspect of the Colombian society. A damaged society that I was part of for many years.
In 1977, a few months into our stay in Ipiales, my sister and I were selected to ‘lead’ a school parade, with another young local girl, who I will call Cecilia. While I can't remember all the details, I do recall that the event was a big deal for the community. The parade route weaved through the streets of the town, and Cecilia, my sister and I were set to lead the way, with all other students marching behind us. Cecilia was wearing a beautiful white long dress; my sister and I donned the formal school uniform.
I, however, didn’t quite understand why I had to participate in the parade, let alone lead it. I vividly recall feeling shy and uncomfortable and less than excited, and while six-year-old me was ill-equipped to assess the reasons for my discomfort, I knew it didn’t come from my aversion to crowds, exercise, or dressing up. In hindsight, I felt like my protagonist part in the parade was undeserved.
A few days later, I overheard someone say that my sister and I were great choices for "parade mascots," because we were the only "blond, white" girls in the event. I was too young to consider the implications of that statement at the time, but I did seem to understand that our skin and hair colour somehow separated us from the rest, as if being blond and white were better or preferred. It’s clear to me now that my unearned role in the show was a position of privilege.
Being told that I am white has always caused me to feel out of place, and at times ashamed, and perhaps the origins of this discomfort are right there, in Ipiales, mixed with those other wounds that, being more obvious to me, compelled me to work on making peace with them.
Growing up in Colombia, and more specifically in Bogota, the country's capital, 'class', more than race, was a point of reference to build my identity. I never thought of myself in terms of race when exploring who I was within the Colombian boundaries, but I did, as the rest of Colombians, consider who I was (and was considered by others) by reference to the complex sets of 'classes' that integrate and at the same time deeply divide, the Colombian society. I many times felt fortunate for what I had and many times felt embarrassed for what I lacked, but I certainly never felt privileged because of being white. My nuclear family has always struggled financially, and I was raised to believe that hard work is the only way to earn what you have. I also learned first-hand that hard work won't necessarily mean you will get what you worked for or deserve. In the Colombian context, being told I am white doesn't immediately make me think about 'race', but it does feel like a presupposition that the person I am has nothing to do with how hard I have worked to become it.
The conversation is necessarily different in Canada, my home for the past 15 years. Race, more than class, is a constant referent for identity, and when I am given the opportunity to identify myself by race, whether by the government, the Law Society of Ontario or elsewhere, I choose to identify myself as Hispanic. But even in Canada, where I am an immigrant of Hispanic background according to the records I want to create for myself in terms of the race I identify with, some people view me as white. Admittedly, this takes my discomfort with white to a place that I still don't know how to navigate through.
I don't think about the parade in Ipiales often, but when I do, the unelaborate remark about my skin colour comes with it. There was an intricate system of power and privilege behind those words about my skin complexion, so casually spoken after the parade. Those were not just words that an uneducated person used to graciously compliment me and my sister. They reflected the political culture (i.e., view of the world) of the Colombian society and not just of that person. They revealed a system that is built upon, and naturally feeds from, the existence of inequality. The possibility that this view of the world may have influenced my own beliefs or attitudes continues to trouble me. I need to understand that system and think about the role I play in it.
It is difficult for white people to talk about white privilege. For some it is precisely because many don't feel powerful or privileged, despite the colour of their skin. For others, having their attention drawn to their privilege involves a misperceived accusation of racism, which needs to meet an appropriate defense, whether in the form of anger, guilt or frustration. I believe this is what sociologist Robin DiAngelo calls "white fragility."
Breaking this memory of Ipiales down into manageable pieces will take much more introspection, and many more memories, and a great deal of reading and learning, so I can contextualize them. Reflecting on how my ideas of white came to be and on what I need to do with them is the purpose of this series, and I want to kick it off by stating the obvious: it is time for me to face my discomfort with white, because despite my nuclear family's modest financial means and powerless social status in Colombia, despite my self-identification as Hispanic in Canada, I may be going through life enjoying an unearned privilege. If white is how others view me, then I have to ask myself if am doing my part to dismantle the system of inequality that I am always ready to condemn, or if I am unknowingly contributing to perpetuate it.
