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Damaris Stroker

Testimonials

ALA 421

Latinx/Panamanian

As a young child, I never noticed that I was different from the majority of my peers. Before I started

school, I spent the majority of my time in Panama, where my parents met while my dad was

stationed at the Panama Canal, my mother immigrated from 22 years ago, and all of my family on

my mother’s side still lives today. Although I have lived in the US my entire life, during the first five

years of my life my father spent a lot of time deployed and me and the rest of my immediate family

would take extended trips to Panama, where I was surrounded by people who looked like me,

talked like me, and acted like me.

Once my siblings and I became of school age, our frequent and extended trips to Panama stopped

and my educational experience in the US began. My very first day of kindergarten became the very

first time I realized my identities as a Panamanian and Latina. My kindergarten teacher made a

monumental impact on my life that has and will continue to follow me: the mispronunciation of my

name.

My parents named me Damaris Salvadora Stroker, Damaris after one of my aunts and Salvadora

after my grandmother. Damaris has Latin roots, and means “gentle,” and Salvadora is a Spanish

name that means “savior.” My teacher, when reading down the attendance sheet full or Rebecca’s

and Jacob’s, stopped before my name, groaned under her breath, then asked the class “I know I am

not going to pronounce this right, so I won’t bother. Who has the last name Stroker?”
The spotlight was immediately on me, as I pronounce my name, Dah-mad-ees, multiple times to my

irritated teacher and giggling classmates. Finally, my teacher asked, matter of factly, “Can I just give

you a nickname and call you Damaris?” mortified, I nodded, and did not say a single word for the

rest of the day. Damaris was born.

I only spent two years at that school district in Virginia before leaving. I grew up moving around the

country due to my father’s service in the US Army, and despite all the exciting differences I found in

every new community I entered, one thing stayed the same: I was always in predominantly white

spaces. Growing up, I continued to be faced with the differences my identity came with compared to

the people I was surrounded with.

In elementary school, my school lunches, packed with love, care, and cultural food items by my

mother, made me a target. In middle school, my fluency in Spanish made me an expert in all things

Cinco de Mayo and tacos and entertainment for kids who asked me to “say something in Spanish!!!”

In high school, boys told me that my identities were “exotic” and “sexy,” and girls told me the only

reason I was accepted into high ranking universities was because I was “brown.”

Before college, I did not understand all of the microaggressions and stereotypes I endured while

growing up. I did; however, understand the blatant racism me and my family underwent by

strangers and family members. One of the most poignant experiences of racism I can recall was also

my first memory of racism. Sitting in the car with my mother after having been pulled over for a

broken taillight, I served as the translator between the officer and my mom, who spoke no English

at the time. I was seven years old, and terrified of the scary many with a frown on his face
mumbling under his breath about “these fucking Mexicans.” After a traumatizing conversation, the

police officer ended his scolding with a friendly reminder: we were in America and needed to learn

to speak English or leave.

Another experience that has scarred me is one with my own family. My father was born and raised

in western Pennsylvania and is a white man. His family did not approve of my parents’ interracial

marriage, and has been loud and clear about their disapproval. We cut off ties with my dad’s sister,

Dawn, after her husband made sexist and racist comments towards my mother, sister, and I a few

years ago and and my grandmother after she defended him. My relationship with my dad’s side of

the family is forever strained because of this.

My identities as a Panamanian and Latina and the troubles surrounding them made me wish I could

wipe away what made me me. I hid my culture, ashamed of my differences, and tried so hard to fit

into groups of people I knew, deep down, that I would never fit into. My shame and guilt followed

me to college, where, I finally decided, I was no longer going to be scared or being loud and proud

about my culture and identity. I have always loved being Panamanian. I love our music, our food,

our, dances, our traditions, and our values.

American

I was born and raised in the United States; however, as a colored person in the U.S, I never realized

the privilege my nationality gave me until I left. Last summer, I went on a study abroad trip to Israel

and Palestine, where I learned about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict while traveling throughout

Israel and the West Bank. Before my program began, I went to Jordan with a group of my

classmates, and we crossed the Allenby Bridge into Israel by foot. After passing through Jordanian
security, we made our way precariously through Israeli security, and my identity as American

became more salient to me than ever before.

My little blue passport gave me the opportunity to skip the long lines of other international

travellers, saved me time when being questioned for my reasonings of entering the county, and

gave me the privilege of having multiple attendants at my beck and call for whatever I needed.

While being catered to, I also witnessed the other side of the Israeli security that my identity

allowed me to avoid. Other travellers without the little blue passport were subjected to harsh

conditions, such as intensive and extensive interrogation, physical pat downs, mountains of

paperwork, and rude, racist remarks and name calling by IDF soldiers.

My identity’s privileges followed me after crossing the border, as I was immediately treated

differently by locals in comparison to other foreign tourists and travellers. My every need was

catered to before the needs of others, such as being waited on first in restaurants, given free items

by store owners, or flocked while at tourist locations, and I was especially aware of this when

learning more about how Palestinians were being discriminated and persecuted against. When in

Jerusalem, I felt an immense guilt, as I realized that the land I was born in allowed me to visit these

important holy sites, while my host family, born in Palestinian territory 15 min away from

Jerusalem, were not able to realize their own dreams because of their nationality.

Now, as I learn more about the identities I hold and do not hold, I reflect on my experiences and see

them as moments of strength, and opportunities to grow. My identities make me who I am, and I am

in the process of accepting this. I have learned that being different is okay and my underprivileged

identities give me strength, courage, and beauty……..not shame. I have also learned that my
privileged identities are opportunities for me to be an ally for others. My journey with identity will

continue on, and I am grateful for the people along the way who have helped me learn, understand,

and grow.

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