Things To Know When Living With White Roommates
I moved out of my grandmother’s house when I was twenty-eight years old. One of my oldest childhood friends reached out to me to explain that she was planning to move out of her parents’ home and wanted to know if I was interested in being roommates. I had reached the age where I felt ready to live more independently and as much as I loved my grandmother, I needed to spread my wings, so to speak. I agreed to start apartment searching with my friend and about two weeks into our search, we realized that our dual income wasn’t cutting it for most places. We opened a dialogue about having her (then ex) boyfriend moving in with us for that extra financial security. Lo and behold, with his income added to the mix, we were able to find a suitable place. Two bedrooms, one kitchen and living area, plus a balcony, second floor. The best part was that it was in a “gated” community. The quotations are there for a reason but I’m not here to talk about my grievances with our complex. I’m here to discuss what I’ve learned after sharing a living space with white people for almost two years.
For some clarification, I am Mexican American. I was born here, raised here, and English was my first language. However, comma, I was raised in a Mexican household. We did our chores, we picked up after ourselves, we washed up before dinner, we fried our bacon in a pan. When I lived with my grandmother, I could never freely use curse words nor openly criticize my mother when I was mad at her. When you’re Latino, you respect your elders, no matter how old you are. I also didn’t have the freedom to be...liberated with my body. If I had a date and we wanted to get freaky, it would be in the car or at their place. When you’re Latina (note the “a”), you have to feign some modicum of modesty when around family. Even when you are in a relationship and you bring them to meet the family, excessive PDA is a big fat no. I once made the grave mistake of sitting in a significant other’s lap at a family function and it did not end well. Another thing I could never do in my grandmother’s household was casually drink. I could not come home from a long day of work and pour myself a margarita without my grandma raising her eyebrow at me and asking what we were celebrating. I laugh at the memory now and to my roommates’ credit, I’m never questioned when I reach for a bottle of wine on a Tuesday night.
The most crucial difference between living at home and living with roommates was, well, it was home. Despite being subject to loving, albeit sometimes aggravating teasing on several occasions, I never felt like an outsider at home. Even when staying over with relatives, I never felt out of place. There was no culture shock, we were family, and I was comfortable. It was not that I became entirely uncomfortable. Living with someone I’ve known since the seventh grade has its perks. There’s hardly any awkwardness and we can happily reminisce about our younger days together. The three of us have shared many movie nights on the couch, eating takeout, laughing our asses off at silly things and getting drunk despite knowing we had work in the morning. There are simply many cultural differences between us that I cannot always ignore. Some are tedious, little habits that while annoying, you learn to live with. This is something that everyone deals with when living with someone new for the first time. Some differences are more serious. Things that cannot be overlooked. I’ve compiled a list of what I’ve discovered upon living with my two white roommates.
No matter how many times you tell them that the dishwasher won’t get everything, they adamantly refuse to rinse out their dishes. Moreover, they will leave dirty dishes in the sink to allegedly let soak before washing them. Yet they still consider it a faux pas on your part to drink leftover coffee. You don’t want to be wasteful but to them it’s disgusting. Apparently, it’s not disgusting to leave four different glasses on the coffee table for two days. You will be tempted to pick up the mess and you will give in several times because every time you walk in and see an empty glass where it doesn’t belong, the siren from Kill Bill rings inside your head. It’s the same as when you dare to not use a coaster for your cold drink in front of your mother.
You will need to remind them that they have clothes in the dryer, and that you need to do a load. You will also have to empty the lint trap yourself because if you don’t, the house will surely catch on fire. I am especially nitpicky when washing towels because I don’t want to waste more water by not having access to the dryer on time and having to rewash them. You will also need to mentally prepare yourself for their things getting mixed up in your things. I consistently find strands of blonde hair in my laundry after folding. Why? How? I don’t know.
They will try and cook bacon in the microwave. Is your eye twitching right now? I’m not sure if this is exclusive to my roommate or not but she nearly caused me to have a conniption when I saw her do this. She claimed it was how her dad taught her and it’s much easier. I begged her to never do this in front of me again and when she didn’t listen, I simply bought a pack of actual microwaveable bacon. It’s a thing, not as good as actually frying it, but it works when you’re in a hurry.
When it comes to Tupperware, you will be the sole user. They’ll just leave the food they didn’t finish on their plate and put some saran wrap over it. Leftovers that are nicely packaged up will be up to you to eat because they will be otherwise forgotten. If you cook something your roommates don’t feel like eating on that particular day, they will make something different for themselves or order takeout. Manners be damned.
You will have to assert your bathroom space. During our first week of living together, I noticed one of my roommates constantly using my bathroom. Confused, I approached him and inquired. He was left just as perplexed, claiming that it was our apartment’s “main bathroom” and was for everyone. OH. HELL NO. He had his own bathroom in his room, only a few feet away. That was his, mine was mine. The only time I allow people to use my bathroom is when we have company over.
Speaking of company, more often than not, I am the one to spruce the place up when friends are coming over. If you’re like me, and you were raised by a Latino mother, you likely adopted her preference to die first before letting company over without cleaning first. Vacuuming, dusting, cleaning the counters, and especially cleaning the bathroom, is a must. For a clear visual, see Chris Fleming’s “Company is Coming” on YouTube.
This is where things get serious.
It’s more than likely to hear a few racist jokes. These jokes aren’t necessarily directed at you. However, comma, being the only person of color in the household, you’ll be subject to them in one instance or another. A mutual friend was having a “Mexican-themed” Super bowl party. Your roommate thinks it’s funny to say, “I brought the Mexican!” when you guys arrive. You’ll laugh and roll your eyes, tell yourself it isn’t a big deal. Then they’ll start making “Build the Wall” cracks when you beat them at cards. It’s all playful, of course. Then you’ll say something in Spanish in reaction to something. They’ll ask what you said, and when you repeat it, they’ll think it’s funny to mimic it with a stupid accent. Hilarious.
It’s somehow even worse when the racism isn’t directed at you. Such as when your roommate is unnecessarily aggressive to the Postmates deliverer because the poor man doesn’t speak English and got lost on the way. When they question what it is with foreigners and directions, it makes you die a little inside. They’ll feel free to talk about what bad drivers all Asian Americans are when someone cuts them off and the driver just happened to be Asian. They’ll dismiss BLM because “they shouldn’t be looting”. When you sit down and think hard about it, it pisses you off more because surprise, one of your roommates is half-Salvadorian and you would think she would be more sensitive about these things. Then you remember that despite her family origins, she’s white. Maybe that’s unfair to say but it’s true. There’s nothing Hispanic about her. Even the cop who pulled her over declared her as legally Caucasian via the ticket she got in the mail. She knows she’s white passing, her friends know it, hell, her mom knows it. Ella es un blanquita.
So maybe, this is a little personal to me. Obviously, I know that not all white people are blatantly racist. I also know that racism itself is systemic and that we all have our ingrained prejudices, whether we admit to them or not. These are the discussions I can’t have with my roommates because I sadly know that they wouldn’t understand. I also know that people can be good or bad and race has nothing to do with that. Nevertheless, it becomes a problem when you find yourself having to bite your tongue about certain issues and feeling like a traitor for not speaking up about things you know are wrong.
On one hand, I know this is my apartment too. I pay my share, I buy essentials and groceries when it’s my turn, and I’m that one that cleans most of the time. I have the right to speak up when things go too far. On the other hand, I remember that in many ways, my roommates have shown up for me when I least expected it. They’ve ordered food from my favorite ramen place after I’ve had a particularly bad day. They helped me deal with a bad breakup and offered support when new prospects went sour. They’ve foregone plans to go out and party to stay with me when I didn’t feel like going out. They’ve left soup at my door and made me tea when I was sick. Which begs the question of why I still feel like the odd one out at times.
The fact is, they’re people. People with flaws, just like me. Does it excuse their problematic behavior? Absolutely not. If anything, living with them helped me understand them and myself better. Knowing what I know now, I realize that the next time I live with roommates, it needs to be with different people. With more like-minded people, culturally sensitive people, people who I can have a dialogue with without walking on eggshells. As the saying goes, live and learn.
Desiree is a Mexican American writer and grad student who specializes in poetry and short fiction. She currently lives in Ontario, CA. Her previous work can be found in The Rush Magazine LA and her other works can be found on her blog at https://lewilddesi.com