I have been writing love letters for a very long time.
Since I can remember I’ve been cultivating a knack for persuasive writing.
Please give me this scholarship.
Vote for me in this debate round.
Please don’t judge me unfairly.
Let me have a job.
Be my friend.
I remember being a kid coming home from 1st grade, and my mom and aunt would sit and listen to me tell all of the stories about exciting things that had happened to me. They weren’t great stories, I mean how could the be–I was only in the first grade. I remember the feeling though of captivating an audience. I thought then that it was worth it to tell a few lies so my mom would laugh instead of worry. Kids that are bullied don’t want to spend all their time talking about the terrible things that happen to them.
I’ve never been particularly confident, and so when I entered an age where I cared for the attention of the opposite sex, I felt persuasion was the only tool that I truly had. And somehow, all of the emotions of a 15 year old girl poured onto paper, and I folded and sealed the notes in the way that one did in those days. Here was courage. This was the best way to let me love be known. Or whatever it was, I doubt that it was love at this time.
I’m not sure that any of the guys really knew what to do with these heartfelt letters and emails, save one. And even he didn’t know what to do with my proclaimed affections. He was gay, and I suspect he was kind to me because he knew what it was to be bold and confess a secret, even if it was known that secret may not be well received.
But early on I was pretty clear on rejection. I became well acquainted with that terrible pain in the pit of ones stomach. It’s the same feeling I get now when I hear I’ve been sacked, or a friend betrays me, or a man treats me poorly.
I wrote about love to Cody, to Jimi. I spouted about Sloan. I reasoned with Ray. I promised great joy and laughter. I promised to always take care of them. All these promises were true, but they all fell on deaf ears.
I’ve pledged undying loyalty to my friends, and my friends have moved past me. I’m so happy that they have. I wouldn’t want it any other way. I have no children, so in a way I want those that I love to surpass me. It’s okay with me. Their loyalty lies with their partners, and there is no room for me. There is room for visits…and I enjoy traveling to visit them and share parts of their lives.
I’m afraid there are no more letters for the new people that I love. My inkwell is all dried. If it must be true that I’m rejected, I can’t make evidence of my foolishness on a piece of paper.
Maybe there are no more gifts for people that push me to the side. There should be no more loyalty to people who pledge allegiance to others. No place for traitors in my stories.
No room for people who devalue me at my table. No ear for people who talk down to me. No power for those who would seek to make me powerless.
Did you find someone better to pass the time with? Fantastic. Pass all your time there.
Are you overwhelmed by my sorrow, there is no room for you in the sunshine.
There are people who do love me, I won’t be in the business of convincing people that I’m worthy anymore.
I won’t convince my father or mother, my friends, my exes, my future lovers. I just don’t have the words anymore.
I’ve lost the coin toss of life twice by being born a black woman, so I’ll negate this round.
Let’s start with some back story.
When I was a little girl I had stage fright. Crippling stage fright. For reasons unknown to me I won pretty much every part that I auditioned for in school plays, and with the exception of one line I delivered successfully about the Boston Tea Party, I was an epic failure at every school play. There were just too many faces in the crowd, and too many bright lights.
I loved music, but because of a random remark that my grandmother made when I was 6, I wouldn’t join a choir until I was 18. I know, I have quite a few issues with quite a few people.
I joined band for two reasons: I wanted to experience the ability to make music in a group without spot light, and because my mother was a flute player. I didn’t know about my motivations at the time because I was making decisions in the fifth grade. I had secretly taken piano lessons without my mom’s permission in the second grade, but quit because it was abundantly clear that I had no business anywhere near a piano at my first recital.
I was quite dedicated to band until my sophomore year of high school. I had never really bonded with any of my directors since junior high, and I was awkward and a terrible player, and it should have been pretty clear that I had no business in band at all. Leslie B., one of the band directors sat me down and had a chat with me. It was probably the most communication we’d ever had in the years that I’d been in my district’s band program. I remember the conversation quite vividly.
“Apryl, I wanted to have a chat with you because you’ve been in band for a long time. How long have you been playing?” I thought for a second and told him since fifth grade. “Ah,” He responded and paused for a second, “And you’ve just started debate, yes?” I nodded in agreement. I just knew he was going to question my loyalty and I was ready to put up a fight. “How many awards have you won in debate this semester?” I tallied up all the trophies that I’d gotten–though I can’t remember now what the tally was at that point. “How did you feel in those moments? I hear your name every week on the announcements lately.” I told him that it was awesome. And then he had another pressing question,”How many awards have you won in band since 5th grade?”
I didn’t have to count. The answer was none. He went on to tell me that I could take extra time off from band to dedicate to debate, and he still allowed me to march at football games so I could hang out with my friends. And that’s how one of the most inspiring educators I’d ever met became so inspiring in my mind. He realized I had a knack for something else, and that I wasn’t going to pick up on that by myself. I am forever grateful.
So, educators have this great duty, I feel, to point children in the right direction, and expand their minds to the finer points of logic. After the election, and some of the things I’d been reading on the internet through the infallible Facebook, I felt hopelessness and despair. I just knew that if these wonderful friends of mine were running around talking about all of us “lily livered liberals” crying over something so silly as an ideology that spurs intolerance and racism, then there was no reason whatsoever for people who didn’t have personal experiences with people who were different to make space in their hearts. That’s a chilling prospect. It’s scary. And after a little time of being inactive, I returned to the same community Mr B pushed me toward all of those years ago. High school debate.
So yes, I must admit that debate is overrun with white males.
And yes, we are still in Texas. But the first thing that I noticed was that all the kids were just hanging out together. Right after the election. Everyone was friends with everyone. Black, white, Hispanic, Asian, even a couple of young ladies wearing their hijabs…Perfectly safe. Everyone was having a good time.
The actual resolution was about qualified immunity with regard to police officers. I heard children from the ages of 13-17, make more solid arguments about systematic racism and how we stop it, then majority of the people who are grown ups on Facebook. How comforting it was to hear a coherent discussion, on both sides about how to deal with a very real problem. I spent most of the tournament judging varsity debaters, but at the very end of the tournament I picked up a ballot to be on a panel in the final round of Novice LD. These kids are new to the sport, mostly freshmen, and for the most part though judges never want to deal with them, here in lies the best opportunity to have a true teaching moment. I accepted the ballot with this in mind.
The round was going absolutely terribly, and both of the kids were making circular arguments and raising their voices unnecessarily. The room was packed with children who were watching to support their friends or just learn something. I was judging with a couple of younger judges out of college. Their critiques were pretty technical in a way that none of the kids could understand but made them seem really smart. It’s not their faults, teaching isn’t something that comes naturally to everyone.
My critique was the longest. I do enjoy hearing myself talk, but I really wanted them to take away something from the experience, and I needed to call attention to something that was said in the round by one of the debaters.
One of those little wonders, at some point in the round decided to make this her sole argument pretty much : The police aren’t racist, it’s black people who are criminals and put themselves in harms way.
No one else had addressed it, and after I made both of the kids feel great, I made an announcement to the room about making the kinds of statements that the girl had made. I first asked her if she had any evidence that the statement was true. She looked around, and I told her that the argument was terrible, without evidence, and that there were maybe 12 other ways to dismantle the argument that she was trying to overcome when she made the statement originally. She looked almost as devastated as the other two black children in the room were when she made that argument.
After the round, she came up to me and sincerely apologized. And I talked to her for a bit and then told her that aside from that little incident, she should be awfully proud.
What would have happened had I not been there to point this out?
What happens when people, especially children, say things that some adult told them that simply are not true? I suspect this type of innocent ignorance is the substance that grows into hate if it’s unchecked.
Education is how we make the world a better place. If you are putting your hope in anything but the future of this nation, our children, your hopes are severely misguided.
We have a moral obligation to educate our youth.
Ugh, now I have to go back to school so I can make a meaningful impact. I like epiphanies and all, but I’m really lazy and I didn’t think I’d have to put in more work for my life to be meaningful. 😉
I tell people all the time that it’s not my job to teach people how the government works. I guess in a few years it will be…
In one of our top secret work meetings, some of the younger girls were talking about how they think the terms used to discuss women’s health were gross. I heard them go on and on, and honestly I remember thinking to myself that what was weird about being in that room isn’t really the age gap. The weirdest thing was sitting in a room with strangers that had a completely different way of looking at everything. I couldn’t say whether their way is wrong or right, but I am pretty sure that their thinking is underdeveloped and on a completely different value system.
I’m kidding. It’s completely wrong. That’s right. I’m judging.
I wanted to stand up and look each one of them in the eyes and say: There’s nothing wrong with being a woman. You work in a lab, don’t be afraid of science. If painting pictures with a bottle of wine is the coolest thing you do in your twenties, you are living your life wrong. The life fairy will take the rest of your youth from you and give it to Keith Richards, because he actually knows how to party.
When I make jokes they don’t understand because basically everything goes over their heads.
I like my job, but I worry about these kids.
Listening to the girls talk about how gross a pap smear sounds, made me think about some things that my gay guy friends say. This is a reoccurring theme for me, and I’m sure I’ve written about this before.
To all the gay men who shame women because they find it funny/secretly hate women:
Just because you are not attracted to women doesn’t make them all disgusting. Having a delicious cocktail, only to have some stranger tell you that what you have between your legs is disgusting or “not right” is a buzz kill. I usually laugh it off, but while I was trying to shrug off the idiocy surrounding me at work, I started to get irritated about it. It’s not a joke. I don’t think that it’s okay to do to women what has been done to you. Someone called you gross for being attracted to who you are attracted to. Those people are wrong and they are assholes. Just because you’re in a safe haven with people who support you doesn’t mean you have to attack innocent women who are standing by. I’m not sure why you’re thinking about my vagina and cringing. I’m certainly not thinking about sweaty butt sex. I’m thinking about having a laugh with people who I think are smart and funny. I’m sorry that someone hurt you. You don’t have to hurt me.
The next time I hear a gay man start down that path, I’m going to put my drink down, stand on my own to feet and make direct eye contact and say:
“You cant fuck right on off with that nonsense.”
Next topic. I’m a really gabby girl. I have been since I learned how to talk. I wasn’t a kid that asked why about everything, it was so much worse. I was told that I needed to be quiet often. The grown ups in my family always seemed pretty perturbed with me. It wasn’t until I witnessed some of my friends parenting that I realized that you’re not supposed to be perpetually irritated by children. I always needed to “sit still somewhere and be quiet”.
Naturally when I got older I found some friends who would help me cultivate a complex of inferiority that revolved around the idea that I talked way too much. The men I would date would definitely chip in. And by the time I hit my late 20’s all of the new aged hippies would help me to really shine a spotlight on what’s wrong with me. All new aged philosophers know that the only way to be free is to do exactly as all of the other free thinkers in your circle are doing.
Be free of society’s chains and preconceived notion, so that you can adopt our yoke. And please don’t have other opinions, brah, that’s drama.
“I get really lonely.”
“Oh really, well that’s probably because you don’t like yourself. You’re definitely going to need to align your chi and then go out into the woods alone to think about yourself until you love yourself so much that you think being in control of your own experience means it’s totally okay to be a shitty person to everyone around you.”
It’s great advice, right? At the same time, the internet starts to explore what it means to be an introvert. We know all about extroverts, they have the power to socialize, so those people are not important. Introverts need this. They crave that. They thrive when….?
Even those we seem to be so sensitive to letting introverts be unique butterflies, somehow the message is that something is wrong with you if you’re dependent of people. Needing attention is wrong.
“Ugh, do you talk all the time?””
“I’m so happy being alone with my introvert arts and crafts package, you’re different so you’re definitely broken. You ought to try being more like me. Here’s a deck of pokemon cards and a special guide to hording pets and never leaving your house!”
Most of my favorite people are introverts. It’s totally cool, but what I didn’t realize is that I’ve been ranting and raving about trying to bravely embrace solitude, when I was never really built to operate that way.
There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just an extrovert. I need people around to recharge.
Thems the brakes. So I’ve been working tirelessly to change a fundamental facet of my personality so that I could become the quiet quirky girl.
Next time someone tells me that I need to learn how to be happy alone, I’m going to look them in the eyes, grab both of their hands, take a deep breath and say,
“You can fuck right on off with that nonsense.”
I’d like to tell everyone a little secret about me.
I don’t like driving. I never have really. My uncle let me drive his car once when I was in the sixth grade. He said that he could teach anyone how to drive. That may have been true, but I’m not sure an 11 year old needs to be behind the wheel of a Cadillac, or Lincoln, or whatever the fuck giant car he was driving at the time. It was supposed to be something amazing that I could tell whatever imaginary friend I had at the time (I was extraordinarily unpopular as a child, which is why I have such a fantastic track record as an adult), but it really just filled me with anxiety.
A year after that, I would have the privilege of driving on the freeway, after my mom got pulled over by our city’s finest. She had a warrant out for her arrest because of a speeding ticket a couple of cities away. Luckily for everyone involved, my uncle’s 10 minute lesson of terror must have taken root with me. I had to take in a great deal of realizations within a couple of minutes. 1.) My mother is an outlaw because she drives fast and doesn’t pay her tickets. This totally makes her a terrible person, and she deserves to be arrested in front of her child. 2.) The police officers arresting my mother didn’t actually look at me. They didn’t ask for a drivers license, and if something had happened to me in that car, their world would’ve been flipped upside down. I was just a black kid and my life didn’t really matter, or they’d have checked, but what they didn’t know was that I had a litigious minded grandmother who wasn’t totally broke at the time. 3.) This would set a precedent for my mother thinking that I could do everything like an adult, if she gave me a good pep talk.
The worst thing about my mother’s mentality about my abilities was that she was fucking right. While the cops were running her license she looked over at me and said, “Now, look, they are going to take me to jail. But don’t cry! (I was glad she said that because I was definitely going to cry). Be brave! Now, Grandma’s house is two exists down. You know how to get there? (Head nod from a terrified 12 year old) They aren’t going to ask how old you are because you’re tall, and they are white so they won’t actually look to see how old you are in the face. Just drive slowly. And go to Grandma’s and let her know what’s happened.”
The cops came back and asked my mom to step out of the car. I got out and walked to the driver’s side. One of them shined a flashlight in my face and then let the other cop know I was good to go. I drove to my grandmother’s, and my mother got carted off to jail.
I know, right? Major lapse of judgement on everyone’s part. But I lived to tell the story, so that’s a good thing. When I arrived my grandma nearly lost her mind, probably because three adults thought it was a good idea to let a 12 year old drive. In a city. On a freeway.
After that even there was pretty much no turning back. I was making trips to the grocery store, and driving everywhere within county limits. I was pretty decent at driving in my humble little opinion, I didn’t even have an accident until shortly before my 16th birthday.
If you look back through my blog, I write a great deal about the stresses of driving. It’s a strain. It’s a necessary evil. It’s something that people have to do to survive. What it is not is a bucket of fun. With that premise in mind: I don’t ever want to drive 2 hours or so on my off day.
You’re going to have to make it worth my while. Negotiate.
Now before, I would just go places because it seemed like a good filler of time. But with this massive commute that I have (and don’t get me wrong, I love this little job of mine and I don’t mind rushing through traffic) I don’t want to spend any unnecessary time in my car. Also remember that I can’t indulge in any stress relievers while I’m driving. I can’t drink. I couldn’t take anything for anxiety without being less attentive. I don’t smoke pot, but if I did, I don’t think I’d be able to manage a long trip.
Oh, and by the way, driving with any kind of headache is pretty much the worst. I can barely handle lights in my bedroom, but somehow even though I’m in incredible pain, I’m going to get into my death machine, and see if I can navigate around other cars through flashing traffic and street lights because…well I’m not sure why I’d do that.
Okay. Here are some reasons why I would drive my car with a migraine.
- Someone is dying and needs medical attention
- a friend is having a baby and needs medical attention
- I was trapped somewhere other than home when the pain started and now I need to get home
- There is a sick puppy/kitten/lizard/other pet that must go to the vet immediately
- Idris Elba is within city limits, and he’s promised to hug me if I just arrive at a disclosed location.
- I don’t have migraine medicine. You are in the location where I can find such medicine, and your destination is my house.
- It’s your birthday, and you need something or other.
- Dave Chapelle.
Now everyone knows. I hate driving. Make me an offer I don’t want to refuse. I learned that it’s unhealthy to put other’s needs before your old all the time from a show on Netflix. I’m going to try to be more healthy.
Since the beginning of time, or at least from the beginning of my existence within the dating realm, I’ve been getting this terrible pep talk. The talk comes from a variety of people, it always comes from people who feel like they are well intentioned at heart. Good intentions very well may be the root of the condescending talk, and so it is often received and considered by any person who is distressed by not having a partner. The gist is this “When you’ve passed whatever magical test the universe is making you take, and you learn to love yourself and enjoy your own company, then you will find someone to share your life with. Sounds pretty swell, right? A person who wants a partner in crime, or friends, or anything they don’t have must have terrible self esteem.
“I’d really like some ice cream.”
“Only once you learn to live without ice cream. can you truly appreciate the value of ice cream.”
“Fantastic. I could just google the location of a marble slab.”
So I’m not the biggest fan of how I look, which really upsets other people. Most of my friends didn’t really grow up with the idea that everything about them is wrong because of some sort of societal stigma. So like they can’t fathom that after years of being told, “You’re pretty ugly, dark people are the worst, black women are masculine, your hair is coarse and out of control” that it would take some time for me to reverse all that training.
I recently watched the Matrix again. It feels like we all forget that it takes time to free a mind, and that just because you’re free doesn’t mean other people are. You will have to deal with those people. It sucks, and it’s tough, but it’s a side effect of knowing more. I’m willing to deal with that.
People often assume that because I’m displeased with my physical appearance, I also think that I am not a great person. I have ups and downs, I am a constantly evolving person. I think, despite what all of my exes tell me, that I have a good heart that is filled with compassion. I am of the opinion that I’m often a fun person with fantastic sense of humor and a way of thinking that is a bit off of the beaten path.
I’m not less enlightened because I don’t identify completely with eastern or western religion. The reason why I’m single isn’t because I’m materialistic. It’s not because I don’t meditate. It’s not because I don’t have any time to discover myself because I’m constantly in relationships with other people.
I’m not single because I’m sad all the time. It’s not because of my bar posture. It’s not because I need to change my personality to be able to date (that kinda seems like a bucket of lies.) Maybe it’s because everyone is different. Everything is not easy for everyone. Maybe it’s because we are surrounded by garbage people. Now you’re thinking that’s a rude thing to say, but rapists, murders, and abusers are garbage people and they surely exist.
If you value the friendships of those around you, you will not find a person that you really enjoy and tell them that they are in a place that they dislike because something is wrong with them. Just because we can’t find the placement of a piece of a jigsaw puzzle, doesn’t mean we throw it away, and that doesn’t mean we should cut it so that we can shove it into a place where it doesn’t belong because we see fit.
Don’t tell depressed people to spend more time alone to become happy with themselves.
Why can’t we just say “I’m sorry you’re feeling icky, would you like some vodka?”
Our friends are a testament to the fact that we need interaction with others. We should judge people as empty or not self aware because they are seeking a different kind of social interaction.
I’m incredibly angry.
I’m angry whenever I think of my obligations. I’m upset that I feel constantly burdened.
I’m upset that I don’t have a partner to share those burdens with. I’m enraged when I think about having to make bricks without straw. I’m terrified because I’m always building houses without bricks.
I’m stifled because I can’t express myself. I can’t express myself because I’m jammed with emotions that I can’t explain and that I actually don’t want to talk to anyone about.
I want to break things when I think about how I’ve been robbed. You don’t ever want your friends to steal from you. Especially something that no one can replace. Someone stole all of the joy, which is ridiculous because I have such a small area of joy to begin with.
I’m pissed when I think about how everyone else can sleep at night without drugging themselves.
I’m upset when I hear about other people having sex. I used to enjoy sex, now I have no desire for it. I suppose it was dwindling, and someone stole the last bit of desire I have left.
He took it from me.
Now I’m this unattractive angry thing that can’t sleep. He’s sleeping. But I’m not.
I’m angry that I feel like it’s my fault. I’m pissed because I feel like all I’m doing internally is whining about something that I can’t change.
I’m sad because I don’t have a job.
My hair looks like a fucking disaster.
I feel like crying is a waste of water. I wish I had mended from the theft before I got fired.
I didn’t mend. Now the roof is caving in.
I want all the hugs. But I don’t want anyone to touch me. I feel completely powerless.
I feel worthless.
I wrote a poem about it but I can’t finish it. I make jokes that are inappropriate.
Everything is a big secret that I can’t tell anyone about. The kicker is that the thief was someone that I always confided in. Who am I supposed to talk to now? I guess I’m supposed to write abstract blogs.
I saw the person responsible for the death of my cat the other day. I can’t really be angry with her because she’s a nutcase.
So I just have all of this angry that just sits on me.
We’d recently gotten a new cat, but it’s like I couldn’t bond with it. I couldn’t give it any love. I’m just all dried up. It was a cute kitten. I just couldn’t bond with it. I’m not sure I can make any kind of bond.
I’m working a small job on the side for a friend for extra cash. I dread doing the work, because I really don’t’ want to do anything.
My friend told me that I should write about the theft, so I am. I’m not feeling any better. I’m just being vague.
You can run around for an entire night making me feel awful about things that I can’t control, like my general appearance, and then hours later steal from me. Because maybe theft isn’t about attraction. Theft is just about power.
When I was a little girl, I used to cry often.
Most little girls cry, but I was always burdened because I didn’t feel that I was good enough. I was burdened that unlike with math, or science that there was no way to prove that I had value.
The great thing about being a minority, is that even thought you’ve talk in political philosophy that you have inherent human worth, your upbringing forces you to drop that premise. Worth isn’t giving to everyone. In fact, as a thinking individual you not only have to consistently prove your worth, but you also have to vouch for every other person in your entire race.
“Apryl, I saw little Timmy stealing on the news the other day. Do you know him? Do you know why black people steal? Is it a systematic problem? Is that what you think.” I’m just kidding. It wouldn’t be Timmy, it would be Dontavious.
I wonder why I have to know all the people in the US that are black. I grant that we’re only 13 percent of the population, but I’m not that much of a social butterfly, and it’s hard for me to mingle with all of the other black people in America when I’m trying so vigorously to impact crime in a way that makes the media’s representation of criminals accurate– since I’m only on piece of 13 percent. Being black in America is completely time consuming. I don’t even know why I’m writing right now, I should be getting pregnant and then getting on welfare to support my non existent crack habit or stealing something.
Sometimes I get to be the exception. This is also a burden. I can feel some what okay about winning over the admiration of a modern racist. How do I protect all of the other millions of people who are just like me? Should I send them a t shirt that says “I know Apryl. She is the exception for black people. Much like her I don’t break the law, so you don’t have to lock your car doors when you seem me crossing the street. But do watch out for that white guy with the crow bar behind me. That’s Apryl’s ex, and she knows for a fact he is trying to steal from you.”
I can’t do that. I don’t have that kind of production system in place. That is also too long to put on a t shirt.
So, this rant with racism has always been present. I feel compelled to write today for two reasons. First take a look at this article:
A good friend of mine posted it on the internet. This was my original response after skimming the article.
“I think it’s really awful. I like white people. Socially I’m often told, “this is not a safe place for you.” Or “These people don’t know you and they don’t typically like black people.” If no one has every told you something like that or said “I’m sure it’s okay for you to be here because you’re not one of ‘those’ black people” then you wouldn’t understand the idea that maybe there could be safe haven anywhere. On the other hand, I can’t possibly thinks that excluding other people so that they can feel a tiny amount of what I feel all the time would be okay. I like my friends. I don’t think it’s okay to exclude other people. I’ve decided already though, that even though everyone is evolving to try to conquer a problem that shouldn’t exist, that if I’d like to be a human wherever I go, If I’d like to be in a place where we don’t have to make fucked up non nonsensical solutions in order to feel safe by exclusions, if I’d not like to have people refer to me and my offspring as pretty for black people or well behaved monkeys…I should book it to another country. The fact that this article exist is retarded”
This is my honest solution. Immigrate. I took it a step further.
“The other day in the car, a really good friend of mine told me that it took a long time for her to be happy with being white. I looked at her with a smirk, she is possibly one of the prettiest people I’ve ever seen in person. She told me that she used to wish she was anything else: Japanese, Brazilian, black.” and I cut her off. “Anything but black!” I exclaimed. No one wants to walk into a room and automatically be stupid and ugly. What a terrible thing for me to say! I’m fairly educated. I’m pretty quick on the draw, but consistently when I read comments on Facebook, I realize that none of those things matter. I don’t have my degree tattooed on my shoulder, so to the majority of the population, my race which represents a little over 13 percent of the American population is completed and utter trash. I realize that articles like that are alarming. I just hope that all the smart folks that realize there’s something wrong with reverse racism won’t take such offense to the fact that the solution is wrong that you turn your back against the problem. Honestly, intelligent readers and people who follow logic are the only parts of this country that give me hope. Don’t take offense and say “Yup, they think all white people are racists”, why not say, I read a bullshit article, and the solution presented was bullshit. Because if I didn’t tell myself that with all the crap I see on Facebook, I would run into traffic to kill myself and disrupt society as the illiterate hoodlum that the articles claim I am”
The people on the tread were pretty understanding. I’m excited about this experience. Now I’d like to show you what made me cry BEFORE I got my eyebrows threaded.
. Now we all know that facebook is not the end all by all of historical accuracy. Most historians agree that though there is accuracy to the story as one of the first displays, there is debate about it being the first. Let’s all be honest, if most racist white people found out celebrating something that was started by a group of black people they would have to all gather and drink poisonous kool-aid. It can’t be true, because all black people know how to do is riot and complain in their humble opinions. This is NOT what upset me.
All of the folks on there couldn’t just say it wasn’t true. I was totally necessary to through around racial slurs and completely degrade any idea of black history. It was so weird. I saw their thumbnail pictures and what not, they looked like completely normal people. I didn’t see any triple K hoods in the back ground. Why are we using the N word? It’s just a debate about history or whatever. I really thought Memorial Day was about honoring the soldiers who sacrificed their lives. We don’t need to take away from that to talk about how crappy black people are…it feels like those folks do that every day.
Sweet. Here’s another one I really like by white people:
I can’t say all police officers fit the mold, but I can tell you that when I’ve been in custody for traffic violations that I couldn’t pay, the cops kinda treating me like the lawless piece of trash America taught them that I was.
I am scared all the time.
I am scared that I won’t have time to convince the police that I have human worth in an everyday altercation about something dumb like speeding or not having my insurance card on hand (the insurance thing is pretty obsolete with smart phone.
I religiously keep receipts because I’m afraid people will think I’m stealing. If you know me, have you ever looked in my purse.
I’m afraid that jobs won’t call me for interviews because of the way my first name is spelled.
I’m afraid because I have to fight the poverty war, the class war, and the race war–and if I fail at either, my children will suffer.
I’m afraid that if I have a children, their mother’s American disgrace will rub off on them and they won’t have a fair shot.
I’m terrified that I won’t have time to explain to others that I have human worth. So, I kinda understand what the article is saying.
In closing, I went to the deli to buy meat and cheese. You know, normal people stuff. There were three older white ladies working behind the deli and a small group of about 4 people waiting. There was no ticketing system. The computer to drop your order and come back was broken. There was a gentleman, white lad who walked up right behind me. The deli ladies served everyone but me. When I asked a question about writing down my order, they all ignored me. The gentleman’s face startled to crinkle, he made small talk. He told me they were probably just really busy and thought that the other had taken the order. I told him he was probably right. After he left, three more people were served in front of me. The third woman, a blonde perky last told the deli person that I was next. The deli lady ignored her, and asked what she needed. The blonde said “She was here first and I’m not giving you my order until you take care of her.” All white people are not racist.The blonde lady was awesome and I thanked her.
Everyone should realize that I should never get to tell stories like this.
I believe so thoroughly and completely in the American dream, that I’m perfectly willing to immigrate to another country to see it come to fruition.