This Series
Race In LA was conceived following the 2019 mass shooting in El Paso, Texas. LAist staffers gathered and shared stories about being racially profiled; about being put in a racial or ethnic box; about feeling unsafe; about never being "enough" of an American. Our newsroom realized there was more we could do to make sure diverse voices are heard in our coverage.
From June 2020 to July 2021, we published your stories each week to continue important conversations about race/ethnicity, identity and how both affect our lived experiences.
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She grew up Afro Latina in Los Angeles, where some people simply 'don't get it.' An Angeleña of proud Puerto Rican heritage shares her story. -
Adwoa Blankson-Wood is a Black nurse but felt she had to protect herself by keeping race out of her workplace. She writes, 'Nobody understands what it means to be Black in America, unless they are Black in America.'
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The things you hear when people can't pinpoint your race -- and insist on asking questions or making assumptions -- can run the gamut from mildly amusing to downright horrifying.
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When you're young, male, and Black, you learn that sometimes, situations involving the police can instantly turn dangerous. Even if all you're doing is reading a book on the lawn.
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Brandi Carter reflects on what reparations for Black Americans could look like now, a modern-day take on the fabled 40 acres and a mule that were given to some slaves during the Civil War. "It's not just about righting a centuries-old wrong. It's about reinvestment in our country to create the level playing field that everyone deserved from the start."
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As a light-skinned Mexican American in the entertainment industry, Sam Varela was aware of her privilege. She often felt "like I 'made the cut' due to my white skin" when getting hired. Lately, she's been thinking about how it all connects to white supremacy.
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A self-described "Black Valley Girl" pledges to prioritize her dignity after feeling forced to explain herself to a suspicious neighbor. "I don't owe it to anyone to make them feel safe."
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The day the police came to the door, 5-year-old Esther Lira was terrified. She cowered under the table as officers ran through the house. Then, her brother Charlie did something unexpected.
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His parents left Mexico and moved their family to a country with better opportunities, "even though they knew the opportunities were not going to be for themselves," but for their children. Now it's up to him to complete his parents' American dream.
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She'd grown accustomed to the "sprinkling of macro- and micro-aggressions from some of my own people about my skin tone and hair texture" that comes with colorism. But there she was, scrambling to show photos on her phone of "my beautiful chocolate family" when yet another person brought up her light skin.
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Her mother used to refer to them both as "mutts" when it came to ancestry. Here's why this daughter of Mexican and European-ish parents rejects the label. (And her mom agrees.)
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A Latina with deep California roots writes: "Perhaps because of my physical appearance and surname, I have occasionally encountered inquisitive types, wondering how long I have lived in this country, or why I do not have an accent." But appearances can be deceiving, as her family history tells.
THE ORIGINS OF RACE IN LA
The conversation started around a table in summer 2019. It resumed two days after a mass shooter in El Paso went gunning for Latinos at the local Walmart. And it's more relevant now than ever.
On Aug. 5, 2019, KPCC and LAist staffers gathered around the big newsroom table where we usually talk about stories, to vent, grieve, and try to wrap our heads around what had just happened.
As we talked, and some of us cried, many of us began sharing personal stories about how our skin, face, surname, perceived national origin — any and all of these — have factored into our lived experience.
A Latina producer with dark skin talked about the time a store employee treated her like she could not afford to pay her bill; a Latina reporter with light skin talked about the anti-Latino slurs she has heard when people are unaware of her ethnicity.
It was an emotional conversation — and now, we're having it again as we once more try to wrap our heads around the senseless death of a black man at the hands of police. Another. Again.
So we are grieving again as our community, and the nation as a whole, faces a reckoning. It's a reckoning sparked not just by the shocking killing of George Floyd at the hands of Minneapolis police, but by an ongoing catalog of abuses suffered by people of color in this country. The protests are fueled by centuries of racism and institutional violence that is disproportionately directed at black Americans.
We know that racism is pervasive. We also know that even in L.A. — diverse on the whole, but still very segregated in reality — it happens every day, casually and overtly. And we know the media bears responsibility for failing to speak more forcefully about this injustice.
This is how Austin Cross explained it in an essay he wrote about coming to the realization that as a black man he had no way to escape racism:
"For so long, I wanted, needed, to think that there was something I could do to be safe in the world. There wasn't. There never was, really."
In hearing the raw emotion of colleagues willing to share stories about being profiled; about being put in a racial or ethnic box; about feeling unsafe, daily; about never being "enough" of an American; about privilege and discomfort, we realized there was more we could do to make sure those voices are heard. Our job is not to lose focus on this. We are asking for your help, both in joining the conversation and holding us accountable to keep it going.