In your own words: Life in Fort Collins by The Coloradoan

S U B S C R I B E R - E XC L U S I V E S P E C I A L S E C T I O N M AY 2 8 , 2 0 17

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MAY 31

EQUAL

DIVER

IN YOUR YOUR OWN WORDS LIFE IN FORT COLLINS AZTLAN

COMMUNITY CENTER

D DIVERSITY OF PERSPECTIVES

THATT REPRESENT CHALLENGES TO

SOCIALL EQUALITY IN NORTHERN COLORADO

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ABOUT THE PROJECT ALEXANDRA SMITH CONTENT STRATEGIST/THE COLORADOAN

What it means to live in Fort Collins is different for every one of us. h When the Coloradoan or any other person or entity shares a story that is not their own, it does so through the lens of the reporter that is putting words to paper. That’s why we launched the Storytellers Project in 2015, and are now expanding it. The event series – along with this special section and a podcast that will launch in June – offers a way for community members to share their true, first-person stories around a specific theme. We’ve hosted a range of events, from mental health to outdoor misadventures. And like great journalism, first-person storytelling has the power to serve and reflect our community while fostering empathy. This month, our theme is “Life in Fort Collins.” Too often like-minded people engage only with their cohorts. These stories, which come in our subjects’ own words, highlight a diversity of perspectives that represent challenges to social equality in Northern Colorado. In this section, you’ll meet Mathew Cross, a member of the Fort Collins homeless community who volunteers to give back to our city. You’ll meet Miki Baxter, who considered moving to Denver because she and her family felt like outsiders here as racial minorities. You’ll meet Michael Devereaux, who relies on public transportation to get around since a 2003 bicycle crash. And you’ll meet others who have a story to share about what living in Fort Collins means to them. Our challenge to Fort Collins is to pause for the stories of our neighbors and passersby, of the people we may not see or hear from often, then consider an experience that may be different from our own and how we can all live and work together. Our newsroom is committed to including more diverse voices in our daily reporting. And we’re committed to continued reporting on the inequities we uncover through this true, first-person storytelling project, from how our homeless population can find steady work to the significance of daily bus service. We invite you to hear these stories live at our May 31 event at the Aztlan Community Center. Visit tickets.coloradoan.com for more information. If you have a story to share, or want to tell us about a story you think we should be sharing, please email me at asmith@coloradoan.com.

2017 COLORADOAN STORYTELLERS PROJECT EVENT SERIES LIFE IN FORT COLLINS DATE: May 31 VENUE: Aztlan Community Center

BACK TO SCHOOL DATE: Aug. 30 VENUE: Wolverine Farm Letterpress & Publick House

GROWING UP DATE: Dec. 7 VENUE: Downtown Artery

VISIT TICKETS. COLORADOAN.COM for more information and to purchase tickets, which cost $10.

THE STORYTELLERS PROJECT IS NOW A PODCAST To listen, go to iTunes, Google Play or SoundCloud and search “Coloradoan Storytellers Project.”

THIS PAGE (Clockwise from the left): Kwon Atlas, Samuel Jones and Janelle Buxton participates in the Coloradoan Storytellers Project at the Downtown Artery Feb. 15, 2017. The night’s theme was love and heartbreak. COLORADOAN LIBRARY FACING PAGE (Clockwise from top): People share stories of going home during the Coloradoan Storytellers Project at Solarium International Hostel Dec. 7, 2016. Lori Feig-Sandoval speaks during the Coloradoan Storytellers Project March 16, 2016. Josh Taylor speaks during the Coloradoan Storytellers Project March 16, 2016. The audience laughs at a story at Jax Outdoor Gear June 29, 2016. Jessie Beyer speaks during the Coloradoan Storytellers Project at Solarium International Hostel Dec. 7, 2016. PHOTOS BY AUSTIN HUMPHREYS/THE COLORADOAN

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Miki, 46, is an artist, college student and mom of three kids. Her story is about personal identity and often having to answer the question “What are you?”

MICHAEL DEVEREAUX OF FORT COLLINS

MATHEW CROSS OF FORT COLLINS

Michael is a retired autoCAD technician who has lived in Fort Collins since 1977. Michael became a quadriplegic in 2003, when he crashed his bike on Horsetooth Rock. His story is about how he has since relied on public transportation to get around and has moved to a townhome to be closer to bus stops and sidewalks.

Mathew, 46, is a member of Fort Collins’ homeless community. His story is about how he recently quit money and decided to instead improve the value of his name by volunteering his talents to anyone who needs them, including area churches.

LADE MAJIC OF WINDSOR

TAMI AGNE OF FORT COLLINS

Lade is a substitute teacher and referee for youth and high school sports in Northern Colorado. She has given inspirational speeches in 23 countries. Her story is about how she has become a role model for children who don't identify with the dominant culture here.

Tami, 56, has been a resident of Old Town Fort Collins since 1990. She has been a business owner, landlord, PSD coach, Martinez Park neighbor, and most recently a Protect Our Old Town Homes supporter and an Old Town Neighborhood Stakeholder Meeting participant, who now lives just west of Old Town. Her story is about the transformation she has experienced and continues to witness in Old Town neighborhoods.

SELINA LUJAN OF FORT COLLINS Selina, 26, is a CSU student and City of Fort Collins employee. Her story is about returning to Fort Collins to live out her parent’s legacy and finding her voice as a Hispanic female.

ISRAA ELDEIRY OF FORT COLLINS Israa, 22, is a Colorado State University alumna with a degree in social work. She attends the Islamic Center of Fort Collins and was president of CSU’s Muslim Student Association. Her story is about the childhood experience that inspired her to speak out against prejudice – and the day, years later, when she saw her own prejudice turned on its head.

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IN YOUR OWN WORDS LIFE IN FORT COLLINS

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MIKI BAXTER OF WINDSOR

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MIKI BAXTER What are you? I’m human While growing up in Japan, I didn’t know anybody who looked like me. h My mom was Japanese, but with high cheekbones and a dramatic flair — not your typical Japanese lady. My Caucasian father was from the Midwest but had jet black hair and fair skin that made him look European. My brother had

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dark-colored skin, I had medium-colored skin, and my sister was fair. I didn’t look like my Japanese or American relatives, either. At about age 7, I came across a picture of a Pakistani lady in a book and it dawned on me: “I must be Pakistani!” I thought. I felt — and can still feel — a sense of relief wash over me when I thought I finally found someone that looked like me. I married a man whose family is from Trinidad. He is black. We have three Japanese-American-West Indian children. My daughter is fair-skinned with tight, kinky curls. She looked very Asian when she was born. My sons both have darker-colored skin with loose curls. They look like they could be Pacific Islander or South American. In other words, apart from our features, we don’t all look alike. Seven years ago, we moved to Northern Colorado from the East Coast. The first indication to me that the ethnic population here was scarce was when I couldn’t find products for my daughter’s hair. Second, we didn’t see much racial diversity. I was driving the first time I saw a black person walking down the street here, and almost pulled the car over to try to meet him. We attended a street festival a few months after we moved here. A vendor stopped the five of us, then tried to take us all in like we were an anomaly he couldn’t quite figure out. He kept pointing to each of us, saying, “you….and you…and you…” I waited for the inevitable question: “What are you?” “Um, human?!” I said. I’ve been asked that question a lot. I worked at a Japanese restaurant in the Midwest while attending school, and one evening an older gentleman wouldn’t stop staring intently at me while I served his table. Finally, he asked me the question, “What are you?” I told him I was Japanese-American. He declared that I looked Cherokee. I smiled as I continued serving food. The next time I returned to the table and his intense gaze, he asked me in a demanding voice, “Well, do you speak Cherokee?”

“Because I have felt like I don’t fit anywhere, I fit everywhere. Startled, I replied that I spoke Japanese. He was undeterred and insisted that I looked Cherokee. I often wonder, “Is our identity based on what we look like or assumptions about our race?” In middle school here, my son won a race and one of the boys that he beat declared that he won because he was black. Thankfully, another classmate corrected him and said that he won because he was a fast runner. My daughter often has people pulling on her curls and touching her hair without asking, having to deal with the aftermath of losing the moisture and destroying the hold that she has to carefully tend to daily. And they are also asked that familiar question, “What are you?” The discomfort of not quite fitting in and having assumptions made about us or our children has made us consider moving closer to Denver, where there is a greater population of diverse cultures. My husband and I wondered, “Should we move where we fit in better?” We like Northern Colorado. It’s beautiful here. It’s a great place to raise a family. So, no. We are staying. It’s an opportunity to be an example, a fresh voice, to communicate a different perspective, to be an atmosphere changer. If there is ignorance here in Northern Colorado, I say it’s more an ignorance of experience than anything else. We bring diversity by being here. What am I? A bridge and a key. Because I have felt like I don’t fit anywhere, I fit everywhere.

Miki Baxter, a mother of three, balances her passion as an artist with homeschooling two of her children, Barnabas, 14, and Keizo, 9. AUSTIN HUMPHREYS/ THE COLORADOAN

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Michael Devereaux relies on public transportation to get around. Devereaux became dependent on a wheelchair following a bicycle accident in 2003. AUSTIN HUMPHREYS/THE COLORADOAN

MICHAEL DEVEREAUX

Stranded in North Fort Collins

My story is about me, the bus system and how I became a full-time rider. h On Aug. 10, 2003, I was mountain biking near the tooth of Horsetooth Mountain. I took a fall that sent me over the handlebars. I bad habit of doing. h It was 45 minutes before another rider came by. He rode down to the park ranger and got help. Search and rescue put me on a back board and hiked down to a clearing. A helicopter flew in and transported me to Poudre Valley Hospital. I spent a month at PVH, paralyzed from the shoulders down. All together, I spent a year in hospitals and rehabilitation before I came home. While I was away, my wife had to sell our inaccessible home and find an accessible home in Fort Collins. Even in 2003, accessible housing was hard to find. She found a builder who was creating accessible townhouses northwest of the Budweiser plant just off Mountain Vista Road. At the time, Dial-A-Ride (DAR) serviced that area since it was in city limits. DAR is a door-to-door van service offered by Transfort. It was my only means of transportation, other than someone strong enough to transfer me into a vehicle. My wife is 5 feet tall and petite. There’s no way she can transfer me. Around that time, the city brought Transfort to American Disability Act (ADA) standards. This sounded great, but it changed the range of DAR. ADA limited DAR service to three-quarters of a mile beyond the established bus routes. We were 3 miles to the nearest bus stop located at Vine Street and Lemay Avenue. I was about to lose DAR in the first few months since I made it back home. I can’t remember how it happened, but I was introduced to Public Transit Action Group, or PTAG. PTAG is an activist group who was asking the city not to cut DAR to those outside the new limits. I joined their cause and went to council to plead my case. I was scared to death because public speaking is not my thing — don’t ask me how I ended up sharing my story at Storytellers. We were able to get those who were outside the ADA limits grandfathered in to the Transfort system. I was going to therapy three times a week plus doctor visits. DAR is only $5 per round-trip, but those trips added up. We had a lot of money going out and not much coming in. When the weather was nice, I’d drive my power chair to the closest bus stop — 30 to 35 minutes away. If I missed the bus, it was up to an hour wait for the next bus. It was only 10 more minutes to Old Town, so I hardly ever waited. It got a little better when Transfort added another route. It doubled my chances of catching, or missing, a bus at Vine and Lemay.

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IN YOUR OWN WORDS LIFE IN FORT COLLINS

landed on the top of my helmet and hyperextended my neck. I was riding alone that day, which I had a

“It bothers me that we had a home built within city limits with expectations we’d have access to Dial-A-Ride and the promise that bus routes would be added that included North Fort Collins.

My wife was getting more nervous about me driving my power chair on the shoulder of county roads. Sidewalks don’t exist up north. I found out I could cut through a couple of subdivisions. The subdivisions didn’t have sidewalks either, but they had fewer cars. The more trips I made to town, the higher the odds of something bad happening. It was years before I told my wife about running off the edge of the road and landing on my forehead. I was sure to be grounded if she knew. I hid the raspberry on my forehead under my hair. Winter months were more of a challenge than summer months. There is a very short window of daylight in the winter and I’ve got caught in the dark more than once. The county roads are very sketchy after dark — even with lights on the chair and me. We loved our home and we loved our neighbors, but the lack of transportation became too much. It bothers me that we had a home built within city limits with expectations we’d have access to DAR and the promise that bus routes would be added that included North Fort Collins. We were up there for nine years with no bus routes. Even today there is no bus, and the people who bought our home don’t have access to DAR because they weren’t grandfathered in. We sold our townhouse and moved to a 55-plus neighborhood near Shields Street and Horsetooth Road, very close to our old neighborhood. The two closest bus stops are 5 minutes from our condominium. Appointments still take 30 to 60 minutes to get to, an hour for my appointment, and at least another 30 to 60 minutes back home. It’s half my day if I have more than a couple of stops. If the bus route I use ran every 30 minutes instead of every hour, it would shorten the trip by at least an hour. Snow presents even more challenges. I can go through a couple of inches, but anything more than that and I can't use the bus. The city is good about getting the bus stops cleared, but the plow comes along and plugs it up again. I use DAR during snowstorms. I feel bad for those who don't have that option. When the MAX came online in May 2014, it made getting around town easier. I can be at the North Transit Center in 45 minutes and the South Transit Center in 30 minutes. I’ve often thought how nice it would be to do things spontaneously. My medical ride requires 32 hours notice. DAR wants a day’s notice. At least the bus is a relatively short wait. But what if it’s a sunny Sunday afternoon? As of today, we don’t have Sunday bus service. They say it’s coming soon. I’ll leave you with a request: Contact your City Council representative and ask for full Sunday bus service. For me and many others, the bus system is a necessity, not just a toy.

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MATHEW CROSS Quitting money to become a better person I arrived in Fort Collins July 18, 2016, as a person trying to find a community to fit in as a contributing

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member. h I came here because I absolutely love Fort Collins, but also to lay my father to rest. I was very broken and deeply depressed when I arrived because my father had just died June 22, 2016. I took care of my dad when he had terminal cancer. We had to keep him as comfortable as possible at home. I made breakfast every morning. I laid out his medication. While taking care of a parent there are some things you can’t unsee, like giving your father a bath or the rashes on his body. Then my dad had to go into assisted living where he would stay for almost a year. My dad eventually moved into hospice care at the hospital before passing away. After that happened, I became houseless. When I came to Fort Collins less than a year ago, I still was. I had nothing more than a pair of shorts and a bad attitude. Now I live in a residency program at a local homeless shelter. I do not have a drug problem or drink, but there is one variable I deal with as a houseless person. A few months into my new life in Fort Collins, I quit money. I came to peace with the fact I will never make enough money to buy a home here, but there are things I can do that money cannot buy. I started volunteering and turning away money for the tasks I did. To me, the payment is the interaction of meeting and helping those in our city. And occasionally, a piece of cheesecake, a nice shirt to wear to church or a bicycle to get me around town. That’s partly because it’s not easy or safe to hold money on the streets. And at the end of the day, I’m simply a better person without being tied to money. Money was a piece of every negative relationship I had before quitting it. I realized I wanted people to associate my name with a positive experience, not a positive bank account. So I watched a video by a man who did the same and lived as a caretaker in Utah. He found value in the things he received freely. That resonated with me. But to start that lifestyle, I had to become the kind of person who could live that way.

“Money was a piece of every negative relationship I had before quitting it. Before I quit money, when I was absolutely at rock bottom, everybody thought I was “Matt the bad guy.” Even though I’ve never hurt anybody or robbed anybody or stabbed anybody, people thought I was a mean person. I decided to add value to my God-given name through volunteering and helping anyone who asked for help, regardless the task. I started going by Mathew with one “t,” not Matt. At first, I would shovel the snow at area churches and service providers I visited. Over the months, I started doing more. I’d tell others who are houseless where they can get area resources, like meals or a place to stay warm in cold months. I pick up trash. I wash dishes at the homeless shelter. I do what I can to help others. My life is still a work in progress. I’m part of the residency program at a local homeless shelter. I recently started a part-time job recycling mattresses and I donate half of my income back to those in need. Some also goes into savings through my residency program, which will be used to help me get into housing when I leave. I was baptized in February and am a regular part of a church body here, where I get a good compass to live my life the right way. During my short time here and my experience with quitting money, I have learned to be Mathew Cross with one “t.” I’ve learned to be kind and helpful. I’ve learned that my value is not based on the money I make, but the person I am.

Mathew Cross devotes his life to helping those in need. Here he works on a mural at the Sister Mary Alice Murphy Center for Hope. COLORADOAN LIBRARY

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Lade Majic, at Lucile Erwin Middle School in Loveland, says she's been preaching “books and basketball” to kids for years. AUSTIN HUMPHREYS/ THE COLORADOAN

LADE MAJIC

Redeeming the brokenness by mentoring youths

For many years, I spent summer months in Northern Colorado, but it wasn’t until two years ago that I became a full-time resident. While working as a substitute teacher, basketball coach and basketball official, I realized that summer vacationing in Colorado didn’t give me a true picture of the effects of

When I made the decision to stay, I was excited and ready to take in what the Front Range had to offer someone like me — a multicultural, brown-skinned woman that grew up in northern New Jersey, 20 minutes from Manhattan, someone who spent most of her adult life trotting around the world and throughout the United States using her God-given gifts and talents to support community initiatives and help build bridges where they were severed. I’ve been to 23 different countries and all 50 states, including Guam, Puerto Rico, Alaska, Hawaii and the Northern Mariana Islands. I’ve also been blessed to travel to nearly 150 military installations worldwide in support of the women and men who serve our country. I lived in Israel for a while, so I figured, Colorado, here I come. I embraced the outdoors accompanied by my friends, Zyrtec and Benadryl (I experience terrible allergies), and soon I began substitute teaching and officiating. That’s when it really became apparent that there is a lack of role models for those of the non-dominant culture. While substitue teaching, I taught a boy who was doing his work haphazardly and didn’t take pride in it. When asked why his work was so sloppy, he responded by shrugging his shoulders. I began speaking with him about ownership and character. I said, “Whatever you do, give 100 percent, regardless of whether or not people expect you to. Just because you and I don’t look like most of these people, it doesn’t give us an excuse to be mediocre. I know you can do better. When I’m coaching, training kids, reffing or subbing, I give 100 percent. I put my name on it. Win, lose or draw, I can walk away with my head held high. You feel me?” He nodded and got to work. I used terminology familiar to him and we celebrated as he completed each assignment. He had a new attitude. According to the paraprofessional that worked with him daily, it was the first time that little boy remained on task, maintained interest and finished his packet during a class period. We had a dance battle during our brain break and he earned a Snickers candy bar for doing such a great job. When it was time for him to work with another teacher, I glanced over as he wrote his name sloppily and I said, “Boy stop.”

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IN YOUR OWN WORDS LIFE IN FORT COLLINS

the lack of ethnic diversity here.

“Try and develop meaningful relationships with people who live differently than you. Try and understand different perspectives.

At that, he giggled as he erased it and rewrote his name legibly. While he was still chuckling, he whispered, “That’s how my momma be talking to me.” Success! Another time, I was deemed champion to a student athlete. A few teammates were making racially-charged comments and thought it was OK to use the “n” word. He started acting out at school. The result was more trips to the principal’s office. My position allowed me to attend to his confusion, anger and pain. I knew he was a believer, so I reminded him of his identity in Christ. He knew his adopted mother loved him, but how could she really understand when she looked like the people taunting him? “Your value isn’t based on others’ opinions of you and just because you wear the same uniform doesn’t mean that you’re on the same team,” I said. He got it. According to his mother, he avidly advocates for himself now. We all need an advocate at some point in our lives, and as an official, I advocate for fair play, good sporting and fun. I remember refereeing two talented teams that were equally athletic, but a definite mismatch was evident from tip-off. The game was exciting and the crowd was involved throughout. A great play was made by one of the more athletic players and a spectator yelled out a racial slur. At that moment, I felt every bit of what that young athlete was feeling. I shielded the young woman as she fought back tears of rejection, shame, hate and anger. I’m not going to pretend to understand why a grown man would devalue a child in that manner, so I won’t. As one of the few diverse leaders living in Northern Colorado, I believe that God has granted me positions of authority to help redeem the brokenness that some of these kids are experiencing. I was able to affirm, validate, comfort and protect this girl with my presence and my words. Several people thanked me for being a role model after the game. Last year, I seriously considered relocating. A good friend pointed out how my regular days at work have led to significant moments with kids and young adults. “If you move where your people are, who will be the voice for those kids?” I was convicted. I know what I told youths of the dominant culture and the minority culture: try and develop meaningful relationships with people who live differently than you. Try and understand different perspectives. I promote unity, not uniformity. I encouraged them to be the change they want to see. No, I’m not a model playing a role. I’m a role model. I’m here to stay.

Fort Collins Coloradoan coloradoan.com Sunday, May 28, 2017 9P

TAMI AGNE Remodels wipe away city’s history, character

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I always wanted to live in Colorado — since before I was 18. Finally able to visit in 1984, my trip took me to many places across the state and I was enthralled with all I saw. I just needed to find my town. When I returned in 1987, Fort Collins was one of my destinations. It quickly drew me in, and I wondered if this just might be my town. Once I visited Old Town, no questions remained. By 1990, I was home. Initially, I lived in a basement apartment a mere two blocks from downtown. I explored Old Town and thoughts of homeownership filled my head. Within two years, I found a 1906 house that had been owned by a college student’s parent, and whose prolonged rental history had clearly left it wanting. I revere old homes. I love the creak of an old floor. I love knowing that others have lived their lives within the same walls. I feel like I become part of their family and theirs a part of mine. It was a bit of a challenge, but I could see the quirky charm of this home — even beneath the filth. It had what would become a delightful garden room to welcome you with lots of light. The dining nook had leaded glass windows, and of course, original hardwoods were hiding underneath seven other layers of flooring. I knew with the right kind of love this house could be a jewel in the quiet neighborhood nestled next to Lee Martinez Park. My neighbors were delightful, so I couldn’t have been happier to be in my historic neighborhood. New neighbors came, just as delightful, and I care for them all to this day. Then, a curious thing began to happen. Five homes faced mine on our small dead-end street, and only one neighbor sat to the north. The small square house across the way received an addition on the back, yet largely remained unchanged in front. The addition was mostly screened by a giant tree. It was a shift, and little did I know what was to come. New neighbors moved in to the cute yellow house on the alley, and I welcomed them with cookies. Soon after that, they invited us to a remodeling party. We couldn’t attend that weekend, but wished them well. Monday after work, I was lost in thought as I pulled to the curb and didn’t notice my surroundings. When I walked in, my then-husband asked if I’d seen the beginning of the remodel. I went to the front windows. To my astonishment, the house was gone and a crater was left in its wake. I had never witnessed a perfectly viable home be scraped away. I thought that was something reserved for buildings in despair. The cute yellow house was replaced by a behemoth which loomed over the tiny green house next door. The owner of the tiny green house could not bear the loss of the solar access and the tall home looking down, so she sold her home.

“Everything across the street had changed right before my eyes. Meanwhile, the storybook house at the end of the row was replaced by a Santa Fe-style gable home set back on the lot. Then, between the small square house and the tiny green house, the needs-a-whole-lot-of-love house became vacant. The owners and builders of the behemoth apologized for its impact, and sought to renovate the needs-a-whole-lot-of-love house. Another scraping ensued, and another modern home grew in its place. Only the tiny green house remained. Once more a lovely couple moved in. They expressed their hopes to just “pop the top” so they could blend the old with the new. The top came off, and then a wall, and then more — what evolved was within the same footprint, the only thing historical left about the home. Everything across the street had changed right before my eyes — the postage stamp-sized home beside my home were the holdouts. The end of my marriage meant the beginning of my struggle to keep my home and save it from a similar fate. Enter in a builder with an all-cash offer. I pleaded, negotiated, and a kind neighbor was willing to back me. I did all I could to compel the pieces to come together. Alas, the builder won. I was heartbroken. My 107-year-old home, my home for more than 20 years, was doomed. History would be erased once again. And yes, the postage stamp house changed, too. The builder saved me some original pieces from my home. I bought another old home, and those original pieces now live on in small homage to my home that is no more. When I came to retrieve them, he apologized to me for the turn of events. This second apology offered in hindsight caused me to ponder once again what I’ve struggled with for years: How is it we can so readily dismiss what has survived for decades? Can we implore those who don’t revere old small homes to not buy them, leaving these neighborhoods intact? Is it not reasonable for an owner in an established historic neighborhood to expect it would have the same homes as when they purchased theirs? Have relationships, communities and history become that disposable? I hope we still have time to reconsider.

Tami Agne, who moved to Fort Collins after falling in love with its historic homes and the charm of Old Town, has watched entire neighborhoods shift with modern demand. AUSTIN HUMPHREYS/THE COLORADOAN

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Selina Lujan grew up in Fort Collins and now works for the city in the Healthy Home program. COLORADOAN LIBRARY

SELINA LUJAN

Learning to speak up — for yourself and for social justice One of my fondest memories from growing up is singing with my grandmother to Doris Day’s “Que Sera, Sera.” h My grandmother taught me not to worry because in life there will always be things that are out of my control, and whatever will be, will be. But she also taught me that I will always have a choice to stand up for what is right and make a change.

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IN YOUR OWN WORDS LIFE IN FORT COLLINS

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“I was either too white or not white enough. It hurt, and I felt like I could not be proud of who I was.

Somewhere during my teenage years her message got lost, but her words of wisdom have never been more true for me than today. My father and mother grew up in different, rural towns in Colorado and they both had unique experiences attending CSU during the early 1980s. My dad grew up in the San Luis Valley, a predominantly Hispanic area where it was easy for him to make connections. My mother grew up in southeastern Colorado in a small town called Wiley, where she was discriminated against for being Mexican. Ultimately, she was forced to assimilate into American culture. My mother’s parents were told not to teach their children Spanish or dress them “like a Mexican.” It was thought that the more American they acted, the better life they would have. You could even say they got the Mexican “spanked” out of them. After moving to Fort Collins, my father struggled to find a community he could connect to, whereas my mother, a first-generation college student, experienced a much more diverse city. However, both of their experiences here did not come without challenges. When my mother was looking for child care and used her given name, Concepcion, she would not get a phone call back. But when she used her American name, Connie, she did. Although it wasn’t always clear if they were being treated differently due to their race, it became more evident when they started working in Fort Collins. During my mother’s first teaching job, her colleagues told her, “Wow, you’re actually pretty good, we just thought you got the job because you were Latina.” There were times we would be treated poorly and ignored at restaurants and stores. My father always stood up for his family. I would feel embarrassed when he would ask to speak to a manager, especially since as a woman, I had internalized the idea that I was not supposed to make a fuss. But my father showed me a different path in standing up for myself. I have watched my parents overcome barriers as minorities in a predominantly white town, but they never let their minority status define them. They wanted a better life for my brother and me, so they raised us to value diversity and inclusion and to give back. My story as a person of color is different than most. My life was never about the color of my skin until I was 13 years old. I have lived a very privileged life. I attended Harris bilingual elementary school, and unlike my mother’s childhood, I was encouraged to embrace my heritage and learn to speak Spanish. When I started middle school, I started to feel like I was different. All the way to college, this feeling lingered. One could say I was experiencing an identity crisis. My privilege did not come without consequence. I didn’t quite fit in anywhere, my friends of color would call me Mexi-curious and my white friends questioned my multicultural heritage. I remember being told that I was white-washed and also asked if I rode my “burro” into school. I was either too white or not white enough. It hurt, and I felt like I could not be proud of who I was. In those moments, I didn’t know who I was. I let other people take away my own sense of agency and pride. That feeling of not belonging followed me to college. I took a risk leaving my family and security behind to go to CU Boulder. I was two weeks into my first year and found myself on the phone crying to my mother telling her I wanted to come home. No one looked like me or understood me. I felt alone.

My mom was ready to do whatever it took to get me into CSU, but my father said, “No, she made a choice, and she has a responsibility to fulfill her commitments.” My dad was right. I needed to go back. I never did fit in at Boulder, and I have disassociated myself quite a bit from my experiences there. But I learned that I had to work extra hard to prove myself. At one point, I felt like I had to assimilate to make it in that town, so I ignored where I came from and I even died my hair blond so I would fit in. When I was in my last semester of college I consered taking a withdrawal from a writing class because I felt discriminated against by my professor. I had no one to talk to about how he continuously belittled me — even my adviser said there was nothing I could do except stick with it or withdraw from the class. It seemed odd that my classmates were getting As or Bs on their papers, but I was averaging at a C minus. I remember one time we were talking about the weather, and the professor said, “Oh, but the sun probably doesn’t bother you because you have dark skin.” Even better, whenever something in Spanish came up he would turn to me and say, “Selina probably knows.” To everyone else, it might have seemed harmless, but those microaggressions messed with my livelihood. I was tired of being perceived as incapable, so I worked harder to prove myself. I got a B minus in the class, and still felt like I wasn’t good enough. But I have taken that experience and I have grown from it. My culture is filled with many empowering dichos, or sayings. And like the words of my grandmother about choices, my mother always tells me, “You have a choice, you can either make things better or worse.” I used to roll my eyes at her, but she has been right this whole time — I do have a choice. I chose to make things better for myself by getting involved in my community and standing up for social justice. When I came back to Fort Collins in 2012, I was a 21year-old college graduate. I started working for the city of Fort Collins Environmental Services Department. The department was looking for someone who spoke Spanish so they could reach more people in the community. I believed in this effort and saw this as a way to give back. I have started to pay more attention to the needs of the community, and there’s still a lot of work to be done to enhance the understanding of diversity as an asset. Since I have started working for the city, my role has grown. I was asked to co-lead public participation in equity efforts. Our objective is to diversify the voices that inform our city processes. Every resident, every one of you, are unique and your experiences are important to us. As a person of color, I do not have all the answers for how to solve the injustices we see, but working for the city has allowed me to work with people who believe in creating systems where community members can participate in ways that are meaningful to them. I can only hope that my work will open opportunities for more people of color and women to share their voices. It took me awhile, but I found my voice. Now I am working on strengthening it. I love my city and I love watching it grow. Things will never be perfect, but I’m happy to be in a position where I can make a change. I thank my parents for setting such a strong foundation for my brother and myself, and I am proud to build upon their legacy.

Fort Collins Coloradoan coloradoan.com Sunday, May 28, 2017 11P

Don’t let misconceptions define how you interact with others

ISRAA ELDEIRY

My story is really two stories, and they’re both about misconceptions, the way they can shape your

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views and your behavior. Four years ago, I was a senior at Fort Collins High School. I just had major hip surgery, and I was walking around the school on crutches one afternoon, coming back from lunch. I was wearing a hijab, like always. Another student walked by me and he asked, “Hey, why do you wear that thing on your head?” He didn’t stop walking. He didn’t seem very interested in what the answer was. He had a bunch of friends with him. But I answered anyway. I said, “It’s for my religion.” He asked me what my religion was and I said I was a Muslim. He replied, “Oh, you’re one of those mother f------ terrorist Iraqis,” and he walked away. It shocked me. I heard derogatory comments before, but I never really stood up for myself. My friend looked at me and said, “Are you just gonna let that slide?” I said, “Yeah, what else am I supposed to do?” And she said, “Girl, stand up for yourself! Show him who’s boss.” I looked around for him, and finally found him in the lunch room. I said, “Hey, I need to talk to you.” He looked at me and turned away. I said, “Hey, either we can have a conversation or I can go talk to the principal and you might get suspended or expelled.” Immediately he turned around. At this point, there was a crowd of about 200 people in the lunch room. There were two teachers nearby, and out of the corner of my eye I saw them sort of back up, as if to say, “Let’s watch the show. Let’s let Israa stand up for herself.” I said, “Hey dude, what you said to me back there really hurt me and that wasn’t OK. You didn’t take a second to get to know me and you made all these assumptions about me that aren’t true. First of all, I’m not a mother f-----. Second, I’m not Iraqi. I’m from Egypt. And third of all, I’m not a terrorist. If you just stopped to think for a second before you said that, and if you bothered to get to know me, you’d know that I’m one of the friendliest people at this school.” And I asked him where he was from. He said he was from Mexico, so I said, “OK, how would you like it if someone walked up to you and used a derogatory term against you?” He said he wouldn’t like it. And I said, “Well, that’s exactly how you made me feel. It’s not OK to make assumptions and put umbrella terms over an entire population. Get to know people before you talk to them.”

“It’s not OK to make assumptions and put umbrella terms over an entire population. Get to know people before you talk to them. For me, that was an empowering moment. Ever since that day, I’ve been able to speak up for myself and speak against injustices and prejudice. Four years later, my brother and sister-in-law invited my sister and me to the National Western Stock Show and Rodeo in Denver. We’re not the stereotypical people you would see at a rodeo, but we decided to go. Everything was fine until the morning of the event. My sister and I thought, “what are we getting ourselves into?” What I’ve been socialized to understand about the rodeo environment is that it’s generally a white, Southern population. We were worried that we were going to come across racist people. But it was too late to change our minds. When we got there, we were the only non-white people I could see in this huge stockyard and we were a little apprehensive. But the way people treated us totally shocked me. People were welcoming. They were over-the-top nice to us. I’ve never been to an event where I was so demographically different and treated so well. They just took us in, even though we were obviously tourists and didn’t know what was going on. For me, the experience felt very full-circle. Four years previously, a stranger had these preconceived notions about me and acted on them. That day, I had my own preconceived notions, my own judgments about a group of people, and just like the boy in the lunch room, I was totally proven wrong. I could’ve so easily shied away and not exposed myself to that culture, but when I took that step, I was completely surprised by how welcoming those people were. It reminded me that it’s OK to have misconceptions. Everyone does. But it’s how we act on those misconceptions and how we allow them to impact our interactions with people that makes the difference.

CSU graduate Israa Eldeiry stands in front of Fort Collins Islamic Center. She says she has experienced prejudice because of her faith. AUSTIN HUMPHREYS/THE COLORADOAN

12P Sunday, May 28, 2017 coloradoan.com Fort Collins Coloradoan

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