Ready to Return

Hamline-Midway, St. Paul. In my opinion, one of the most diverse areas of the Twin Cities and perhaps even in all of Minnesota. Kim’s Oriental Market is just a block away from Black Sea which serves authentic Turkish food, and that is just two hundred feet from Udo’s African Grocery and Restaurant. Every ethnicity you could imagine I’d see on a daily basis, walking on the same sidewalks, shopping at the same stores, howling up and down the stretch of Snelling Avenue that homed these many people. There was no segregation in neighborhoods, everyone collectively lived together, maybe not in harmony but we all lived together. At times I find myself thinking of two things:  “Why would anyone choose to live in this neighborhood?” and “ Who wouldn’t want to live in this neighborhood?” Two polar opposites. Housing is cheap, we don’t live in a food desert, and public transportation is open for everyone (paying and non-paying customers), but on the other hand, there are cops on every corner, the homeless population seems to grow every day, and drugs are a permanent resident of this area. This area surely has its ups and downs (given I was fourteen years old when I witnessed my first drug deal), and after that, it was just a normal sight to see, but as I look back and think about the area I call home, I wouldn’t change a damn thing; in fact, I call myself lucky.

My high school was riddled with menaces. I’m sure everyone says that about their high school, but even people I’ve met up here in Duluth who know about my high school know it’s bad. Remnants of cocaine, sophomores who would pierce each other’s body parts in the bathroom stalls, and the cops were called at least once every day. This has nothing and yet everything to do with the demographic of this school. Myself and the other white students were the minority without a doubt, the neighboring areas brought in large numbers of Hmong and Somali students, and I’d say we had the largest African American student population in our district. Our principal would call the cops when two black girls started to raise their voices at each other; unrest and altercations were both common occurrences, and being called a racist was just something the staff members were used to, almost like a title on their lanyards. When our panicked principal announced over the intercom one day,  “I love all my students, even the black ones,” the student body collectively decided that enough was enough, and we walked out. Central Strong was our motto, yet we were falling apart.

I’ve played volleyball since I was twelve years old. High school club volleyball was more than just other girls from St. Paul, the “inner city” as we would call it;  the teams were majority rich, white girls who lived in cookie-cutter homes in the suburbs.  (They would still claim to be from the “cities.”)  Volleyball is an extremely white sport and I actually don’t know why;  sports and demographics is such an interesting topic, one I wish I knew more about. My junior year of high school, one of my teammates (one of the rich white girls I was talking about) insinuated that she had never had a conversation with a black girl — or any black individual for that matter. As a person who grew up surrounded by every type of person, I found this extremely odd and frankly insane. How could she have gone the last 17 years speaking to only people who were just like her? How can that be interesting? How can she feel well-rounded and educated? I felt spoiled by the fact that I had encountered every type of person imaginable (beyond race). Funny how a poor, inner city girl felt spoiled compared to a rich girl who lived in the biggest house on her street, but I did. Sure, she paid for her high school education and she probably learned things that my school simply couldn’t teach me. (At one point we couldn’t afford paper handouts or ink.) But I was rich in knowing how to communicate with people different than myself and I embraced this tool. I loved it. A few months later, on her predominantly white college campus, she found herself afraid and speechless while walking past a black man on her way to class.

I find myself now in Duluth, a place so small it feels like the country and a place so white it feels like the suburbs. Granted I do see people of color walking down the street and international students roaming the halls, but it’s just not the same. From an outsider’s perspective, it feels like the African-American , Asian, and Latino students know they don’t belong here, or at least feel deep down like they are constantly being looked at. I’ll admit, those are assumptions, but when I surround myself with the African-American, Asian, and Latino people in my hometown, they don’t seem nearly half as uncomfortable as they do here in Duluth. Now I’m not saying that Hamline- Midway is accepting of all people and everyone is treated equally, but we all live together and it seems like we have a better understanding that community doesn’t mean everyone looks the same. Maybe Duluth is more conservative (I mean it definitely is), but this can’t be the only reason I see people of color with their heads hanging low. It makes me wonder “If they knew, why did they even want to come here?” Perhaps they had no choice, perhaps it was the cheapest option as it was for me, perhaps this school gave them the best scholarship. But is any of that worth feeling like you don’t belong?  The answer to that is “no.” Nobody deserves to feel inferior in a place that is supposed to be welcoming and safe — a city that is now your home and the school at which you attend.

“You do know there are people outside begging for money? It’s just sad because all they buy is drugs.” This is a daily complaint I get about the people experiencing homelessness outside of my job. The majority of the people “begging” are Native Americans (Funny how they are begging on a land that was and is theirs), and they are the only ones we ever receive complaints about. Nobody has anything to say about the white lady who comes up to you in her motorized wheelchair and begs for money.  In fact, people will buy her gift cards and give her food almost every day. Some of the clerks get visibly nervous when a black man comes through their line trying to buy his food. Why? The creepy white man who just made a comment about your breasts received a “have a great day” yet this black man gets nothing but a look of fear. You can really tell what kind of people people are by how they treat others, and people in Duluth quite honestly, are racist. Racist is a strong term and I’m not saying all Duluthians are racist, but when your implicit biases restrain you from being a decent human being… what else should I call you? Rude? That word simply isn’t strong enough.

I’m grateful I come from a place where seeing a black person doesn’t frighten me, and where the smell of Tavuk Iskender kabobs makes me feel at home rather than disgusted. St. Paul treated me well and gave me the tools I needed in life to be a well-rounded person who can appreciate the differences in people. Never would I choose to spend my life only surrounded by people like me, so thank god I wasn’t born anywhere else. I dream of returning to St. Paul, and the day will come soon enough. I guess until then I will continue to be dissatisfied and disappointed with the place I call home now. Sorry Duluth, you’re not for me.