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A gathering of the three r’s: Resistance, refusal, and refuge

A gathering of the three r’s: Resistance, refusal, and refuge By Leigh Patel I recall several times when my parents were headed out to have dinner or join a catered dinner party at one of father’s colleagues’ homes. I was most mesmerized and confused by my mother’s actions of ‘getting ready.’ She often wore a still-elegant silk ivory pant-suit with black polka dots. She would be ‘ready’ early and would paint her nails, always cut short because that would only get in the way of her sizeable labor in our home. She would blow on her freshly painted nails softly because there were just a few moments in which she was preparing to step across a door path, not just our home’s, but more significantly, across the threshold into of the all-white middle and upper middle class hosts and their guests. She would not speak to them of the work she might have done earlier in the day, including cooking for a family of five and keeping the household running to financially stable and navigating the bureaucracy to sponsor many relatives for resident visas in the United States. On the few occasions in which I had seen my mother at “company picnics,” I saw her veer towards the quiet http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png The High School Journal University of North Carolina Press

A gathering of the three r’s: Resistance, refusal, and refuge

The High School Journal , Volume 103 (3) – Dec 18, 2020

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © The University of North Carolina Press.
ISSN
1534-5157

Abstract

By Leigh Patel I recall several times when my parents were headed out to have dinner or join a catered dinner party at one of father’s colleagues’ homes. I was most mesmerized and confused by my mother’s actions of ‘getting ready.’ She often wore a still-elegant silk ivory pant-suit with black polka dots. She would be ‘ready’ early and would paint her nails, always cut short because that would only get in the way of her sizeable labor in our home. She would blow on her freshly painted nails softly because there were just a few moments in which she was preparing to step across a door path, not just our home’s, but more significantly, across the threshold into of the all-white middle and upper middle class hosts and their guests. She would not speak to them of the work she might have done earlier in the day, including cooking for a family of five and keeping the household running to financially stable and navigating the bureaucracy to sponsor many relatives for resident visas in the United States. On the few occasions in which I had seen my mother at “company picnics,” I saw her veer towards the quiet

Journal

The High School JournalUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: Dec 18, 2020

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