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Conversations on Difference
~A Diversity Essay Contest~
While diversity exists all around us, often times it is easy to categorize diversity as a mix
of races, religions or beliefs that are easily discernable and the experiences that come with
diversity predictable. Some differences may be apparent in a glance, but there are a
multitude of experiences for every individual that colors his/her perspective, making the
move from a very small farming town to MSU equally impressive on a person’s life as moving
from another country. Through sharing of personal experiences, people can better
understand the plethora of experiences that lead us to live in a diverse environment, even if
we don’t always recognize it. The Diversity Awareness Office invites submissions of personal
essays that explore issues of diversity.
Essays should be no longer than 500 words in length and may deal with any number of
issues and/or experiences with diversity issues (including but not limited to race, ethnicity,
sexual orientation, gender, class, ability, difference, privilege and prejudice).
Submission should remain in good taste so that they may be shared with a wide audience.
The Diversity Awareness Office reserves the right to disqualify entries deemed inappropriate.
This contest is open to all students at Montana State University. The topics covered in essay
entries may deal with a range of issues and experiences related to diversity, highlighting the
variety that exists within our community via this medley of experience.
The winning essay will be highlighted in the Spring issue of the DAO’s newsletter, as well as
being considered for publication in the Bozeman Daily Chronicle. The author will also receive
a prize package from campus and Bozeman businesses.
Thank you to:
The Community Food Co-op
Colombos Pizza
Border's Books and Music
Montana Ale Works
For their generous donations this semester
New contest also upcoming!
Entries must include author’s name, phone number, email and department.
**To view past contest essays and winners, please click here!
Fall 2008 Essays
Winning Essay
A Barbershop in Wyoming
by Adam Benson
It had been a couple months since my last hair cut and upon recurrent mentions from my parents that I looked ‘shaggy’, I decided to go in and submit myself for a trim. I had been in this barbershop ever since I was young and now felt at home in the familiar scene of the older white men with close cut hair and protruding bellies covered by western-style shirts. Before the haircuts they would always relate stories of their childhood and how the times were so much better back then. They talked of sandlot baseball, high-school sweethearts, and how peaceful and docile the times were. These times sounded so wonderful that I always longed to share the same sentiments that they grew up with.
This day when I was to get my haircut was no different. The old white men were all talking about how much better high-school football was when they played. Each man had his own story that lead all the others to laugh and tell stories of their own which would spur on more laughing and more stories. In the middle of one man’s story the thick wooden door opened and the joyful mood of the parlor deflated. The men all glanced to the door and hurriedly picked up the hunting and sports magazines and buried their gazes in them. Through the door walked a young Native American woman, probably in her early twenties, with a young child of about four or five in tow. The woman and her son had magnificent dark skin and long black hair that flowed down around their waists. They sat down in the seats that lined the parlor, apparently in want of a ‘trim’ for the young boy. The barber cringed at the task of having to cut hair that wouldn’t be buzzed down into a short cut and averted his gaze from the two customers. For the remainder of the time I was there, no one shared stories or told tales about the peaceful time they always talked about so much. There was only the whispering of the mother to the son and the professional talk of the barber.
After my haircut I paid the ten dollars and gathered my coat to leave. When I pushed on the thick door it seemed so much harder to open than before. Its oppressive weight made it feel like a vault door, intended to keep people out rather than allow them to move about freely. The blustery wind outside made me feel cold inside my coat. When I had gone a block away, I looked back and watched the spinning of the barbershop pole and noted how despite the movements of the red, white, and blue, the patriotic-colored lines, they were not going anywhere at all. The image in the glass case was simply spinning—stuck in its own path.
Second Place Essay
What if nobody touches me?
by Nirleska Prieto Vanegas
The first time I asked Phiphat for a hug, his eyes were hiding under his straight black hair and he answered me nodding his head “Nirle, if I hug you, I have to marry you!” I, against any good manners, as a culturally proud Venezuelan, hugged him strongly. After my imprudence, I became just ears, and heard the spellbound Phiphat, explain how in the past, in some place in the north part of Thailand, men couldn’t hug (or touch) women. Thai people believed that girls lost their virginity by a simple embrace, so the man had to marry the girl in question. No explanation allowed.
In Venezuela, an elephant-shaped country in South America, hugs are the second language. Venezuelans communicate by Spanish, but they are understood through hugs. How very powerful is the essence of this gesture for Venezuelans. In the morning, after morning but before noon, at noon, at evening, night, whenever. In the middle of the street, at work, in a meeting, in the train station (very romantic, if you just stand up between the other one’s arms while people are pushing you), in your classroom, the final day with your professor, in the airports (a fair of hugs and tears, every single minute there), wherever. Also, with whoever: friends, parents, neighbors, classmates, siblings, the doctor who tells you you are not going to die, the stranger who sold you the last ticket for Shakira’s concert, that friend of your friend, the friend of your friend’s friend, etc. Even when is no reason for hugging. You eat, you hug. You breathe, you hug. You work out, you run, you jog, and you hug. We are a hug-dependant country.
For my infinite background and experience in the science of Hugging, I was culturally shocked when I arrived in Montana and discovered not just the different sky, the fairy dusk, the clean air, but the respected personal space everyone has as an invaluable treasure. It seems like everyone own a piece of wonderland around himself, invisible, just as big as his own shadow, which is clearly seen by the rest of the world. Magically, it disappears in front of deep love, long friendship, family moments...
But there was another thing about hugs Montana had to show me. Blessed are the people who can hug. And blessed are the people who can reach the magic of a hug, without even touch other’s arms.
It was my friend Chindaphone’s birthday. At midnight, she heard the Happy Birthday anthem in Spanish, Filipino, Thai, and Indonesian, among other languages. After that, we started to play, telling her some gentle and sincere words. I hugged and kissed her many times (I thought this was the best way to show her my affection), but she would receive love in another beautiful way, too. When it was his turn to talk, Phiphat, who hardly hugs people, closed his eyes, raised his hands, bowed his face, and, in Thai he would bless Chidaphone. Nobody talk, but everybody understood. We were still silent when he suddenly opened his eyes and found his friends shocked for being part of that magical moment which, like a supernova, maybe cannot happen again. Culture is a sun that always enlightens love in different ways, but it is always bright.
Runner-Up Essay's
German
by Marcus Mantik
I always try to pretend that I am American, but the truth always comes out one way or another. My English accent is authentic enough that most people don't pick it up right away, which can lead to funny situations. Last week I was approached on campus by volunteers trying to encourage people to vote. They asked me whether I was registered to vote in Bozeman. Of course, my answer was no. The following question was if I would vote with an absentee ballot. Again my answer was no. A bit puzzled I was asked if I would vote at all. Again I answered with honesty and said no. Only to be told how ridiculous it was not to vote. I enjoyed the situation but didn't want the person to feel bad. So, I let them know it has a simple reason why I am not voting. It's because I am German and I will be put in jail if I do.
Being a German in American also has it's advantages. It was during my freshman year at MSU that I recieved a parking ticket. I had borrowed my friend's car on Sunday evening, the last day of Thanksgiving break. I picked up another interational student from the airport and brought her back to campus. Unaware of the different parking sections I parked my friend's car in the S/B lot instead of the E lot. I recieve a $25 dollar parking ticket. The police told me, I can file a written appeal stating my circumstances. I followed their advice and played the "international student card". It worked. After the appeals committee had met I recieved a call. The police officer told me I was the only person whose appeal was granted that day. I smiled and was happy about not denying where I was from.
I do not want to create the impression because I am German I am above the law. It certainly is not like that. In Germany we have the Autobahn. It is a place with a minimum speed limit but no maximum. Thus. I am used to driving fast. Last spring however I was driving south on Interstate 5 in Washington State. I was pulled over by a police officer and told I went 15 miles of the speed limit in a 60 zone. In that case my passposrt was worthless. I had to show my American drivers license. I did not even attempt to mention my nationality. I believe any reference to Germany or the Autobahn in an attempt to redeem myself and lower my fine was would have increased it by 10% automatically, just to remind me where I am. Thus, I involuntarily added $144 to the treasury of Tacoma city and reevaluated my German driving habits.
My eating habits are also very German. I hold the fork in my left hand only. The knife is heald with the right hand and used for cutting. There is no right or wrong about this. Just different ways to accomplish the same thing. Because of the way I was brought up I do not use the fork to slice a piece of my breakfast egg or my french toast. I do however, put ketchup on my french toast. I can see the disgust in your face right now. My parents looked the same way when they tried theirs with sirup. I don't know why we eat it with ketchup instead of sirup. Neither do I know why our cough medicine tastes like American root beer, but it explains my dislike.
I have found my own piece about being German in America. I believe that I can enjoy the best of both worlds and share it with those interested.
Diversity - A Haunting Misconception Plaguing Human Ascendance
by Eric Curtis
It is not often one looks around to find themselves surround by new and unidentified things - personal comfort demands consistency. Diversity, from a base consideration, brings forth the idea of vastly differing people, ideas, concepts, but this is far from the actuality. Diversity is often mistaken as the first exposure to something outside of childhood, a Technicolor substitute for overbearing parents, a small town populous, or simply a sheltered youth. Alas mistaken here is the key, for diversity is something much deeper and far more important that simple novelty. By virtue of selfishness, we surround ourselves with those sharing similar thoughts, ideas, and philosophies. Only the rarest of times can an outcast of personal doctrine become a confidante, but only briefly and is often never considered, even sometimes regretted.
Diversity is simply an open mind, regardless of location. The ability to not discredit some other person purely because they do not ascribe to accepted ideals is diversity. The capacity to ease the burden of proof for ideas clashing against the palisades of belief is diversity. Consideration for the plight of another making their way through a situation not unlike, yet vastly different to, the prescribed existence without relegating them to the inconsequential is diversity. A simple realization that people of all design are equally important in value and consequence, regardless of background, is in fact the highest caliber of diversity.
Beware the siren of differing perspective, as diversity requires and demands much more of than this. The most critical component of diversity is acceptance of difference, simple awareness is vastly insufficient. Without personal acceptance the thought of diversity is nothing but a specter.
Diversity Essay
by Aimee Gough
Two kidneys, one spleen, breathe in, breathe out. I’m a first year medical student at MSU, and I dislike diversity in human anatomy. When our cadaver in our lab class had a textbook heart, I was pleased that life imitated science. I don’t know too much medicine yet, but I bet that surgeons also like things being the right shape in the right place. I appreciate that people are built the same inside because it simplifies my learning. Sure, there are sometimes statistical variations in anatomy but for the most part we can assume that the heart is on the left and the liver is on the right. It’s convenient that people are essentially, scientifically, the same inside. But when we focus on patients being identical and reduce them to organs or diseases, we risk seeing people as the Broken Leg in Room 3 or as the Heart Attack in the ER.
This is where diversity and medicine must intersect. I used to assume that diversity just meant having a politically-correct sampling of various ethnicities, religions, sexualities, and socioeconomic groups. However as I plough through medical school, I realize that true diversity is found through the invaluable sharing of various human experiences. This shift in my perception happened because of a class that all students-doctors in my program take called Introduction to Clinical Medicine in which we learn how to be physicians (minus the actual medicine part). We don’t focus on diagnoses or treatments yet, so we learn how to help patients share their stories and how to listen.
These stories start with symptoms but soon meander toward details about family, work, finances, stress, hobbies, and more. We are taught to ask about culture and careers as well as aches and pains because only together do they paint a complete picture. When I’m shadowing a busy physician in the clinic, it is these personal differences which separate one breast cancer patient or one flu patient from another. This is my new experience of diversity. It allows a name on a medical record to morph into a worried woman with a sick child and no health insurance, or into a resilient farmer with a broken foot who can’t stop to rest. Even social labels that often signify diversity seem empty compared to a genuine doctor-patient connection because knowing that someone is Hispanic, gay, or Mormon lacks significance without knowing how their particular background may be a source of identity, pride or sometimes difficulty. And so we learn to ask “How are you feeling today?” but more importantly, “What makes you who you are?”.
Taking time to understanding people’s diverse experiences turns medicine into an art. I have a long way to go before I’m a doctor, but I know I’m getting a solid foundation in the human side of doctoring. Our bodies may be the same inside, but we are a diverse population – a fact which is never more apparent or important than when we step into a physician’s office and hope to be healed.
Opening a Dialogue for Diversity
by Daniel Webster
“Why does the color of his skin matter? If two people love each other, why can’t they get married? Why do you think people made fun of my pajamas at our school pajama day?” While the first two questions could have come from any adult conversation, the third alludes to the truth. These are examples of questions I field from my seven year old son on any given day of the week. It usually happens like this.
I drive listening to NPR in the car, in the back seat I hear him making up silly jokes, contemplating designs for Lego creations or bargaining for some modification to a house rule we may have. So the thoughtfully poised questions that may come hours or days later let me know that not only was he listening, he’s processed the information and has some serious ideas of what’s right and what’s wrong. The questions often catch me off guard and I have to ask him to back up to the beginning to give me some sort of context. He’ll open the dialogue on these politically charged issues of race, religion, and same sex marriage without being the slightest bit self conscious and for him, the answers are easy. There simply aren’t any valid reasons to gauge the quality of a person on the color of one’s skin; if two people love each other, they should be the ones to decide if they want to get married; religion isn’t something to fight over. He’s completely open and logical, untarnished by the rhetoric of today or the constraints of the past, and untouched by the sorrow such issues have wrought.
Through these conversations with my son I’ve been required to process my own thoughts, give voice to my own opinions, breaking things down to their barest elements all the while remembering that my seven year old child is just that, a child. We share similar views for wildly different reasons, but at the very root is a shared understanding and respect for diversity. Since this isn’t something I set about to teach, rather views my son sought to share, I’ve been amazed how someone so young can understand things that have at times been so profoundly difficult for others to comprehend. Glaringly important in all of this is my realization that this is exactly the kind of conversations we should be having with our children. It may be trite to state, but diversity is our foundation, something to honor, to celebrate, and to teach.
So when my son asks why the kids made fun of his pajamas, the answer is that sometimes we don’t appreciate how different we all are.
In a country whose foundation is equality for all, we can be proud of our diversity, and with open minds and a willingness to learn, we can allow it to be the diving board of possibility.
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