|Can't sleep, feel sick, already tweeted the gist of this, but I want it said here in detail.
||[Aug. 9th, 2015|04:50 am]
Expatriated Zulu and Charming Negress
I'm scared of white people.|
There. I said it. White people scare me. Large groups of them. Especially wearing suits. Most especially holding guns. The debates the other night...I didn't watch them live, but watched both of them the next morning.
I'm scared that the people who say the most outrageous, nasty things are getting the best numbers in the polls. Lots of different polls. Donald Trump isn't a laughable douchebag. Some unfathomable faction of America is actually thinking that it's a good idea to have someone that mean, foul-tempered, economically incompetent, and bigoted running the country.
I don't like that I actually sympathize with Megyn "pepper spray is a food product and Santa can only be white" Kelly.
I don't like all these people talking about brown people but not about the white people that engineered more terrorist attacks on US soil since 9/11.
No one talks about racist cops, no one talks about income disparity. They talk about imaginary boogeymen coming over the border wearing sombreros and twirling their bandito mustaches as they supposedly run around raping women. White women, I guess. I doubt they'd kick up a fuss if it was women in any other melanin bracket.
Run, Miss Flora! If you get raped by an "illegal", you can't be in the Miss USA pageant!
It took me a long time to admit this fear I have of the race I was born into. I'm not Rachel Dolezal. I think what she did was beyond disingenuous and totally fucking lazy. Having read about her biological family and their batshittery, I can see why she'd want to distance herself from that Duggar-ish crap, but there are better ways to be an ally than to pull some bullshit Iron Eyes Cody scam and get traction alopecia in the meantime (most Caucasian hair is not structured with the strength to be in cornrows for extended periods, sorry about your bald spots Rachel). The "Charming Negress" in my blog title refers to a line in Star Trek TOS.
That dialogue stayed with me ever since I first heard it as a kid. I like the idea of a future where words are not feared...because right now, words are worse than knives and bullets.
Tonight I expressed this fear to someone close to me. They said I was racist. I admitted yes, I am racist, and I hate that about myself. I am ashamed.
They proceeded to inundate me with line after line of "you want to kill whitey. Kill whitey! Kill whitey! can I quote Malcolm X? 'KILL WHITEY!'" and I was crying so hard I could barely breathe. I begged them to stop. They didn't. Then they said they were just teasing. They had no idea how hard it was to admit my racism and they thought it was okay to make a joke that was not a joke.
I remember being teased like that all through my childhood. I was the fat girl, the girl with the strange ideas beyond the grasp of her peers, the ugly girl who did not know how to play soccer, the girl who had glasses and bad skin and snarly hair who never had a boyfriend ever.
I was the girl who after I gave a presentation about my father's experiences in WW2, a rumor sprang up that my dad was actually a Nazi. Swastikas were drawn on my schoolwork when my back was turned. I came home with muddy footprints on the back of my shirts. My clothes were stolen, my money, my trinkets. My purse was grabbed and turned upside down and my sanitary napkins cackled over. If I got a wrong answer in class, I was jeered at for hours. It didn't matter that the other twenty times I got it right when no one else did. It doesn't matter if you're smart and know stuff. All that matters is that you're fat, ugly, don't know the rules of field hockey, don't own a Benetton shirt like all the popular girls with their gleaming permed hair and perfect handwriting.
They liked to see me cry. It wasn't difficult. There was always something new wrong with me that they could point out and exploit. I was followed home and pushed in the mud. My winter hat stolen right off my head along with a fistful of my hair. Once I carried a vegetable paring knife in my pocket and brandished it at them when they tried to grab my books and hurl them down the sewer. I got suspended for a week even though it didn't happen on school property. I never got my books back.
I saw kids getting teased worse than me. I tried to deflect attention away from them, onto myself. A martyr. A victim soul. I dunno what I was thinking. We're all supposed to be self-centered shits and wear these invisible helmets of apathy and keep our heads down in a flock, I guess. I didn't know how. I only knew how to cry and have no one stick up for me, at school or at home. I only knew how to give a shit and wonder why no one else did, and watch them in church on Sunday as they genuflected and ate the cracker and didn't take a single fucking thing taught in there to heart.
They said I was racist. I wasn't racist then. I am now. But I don't hate any white people, nor do I want to kill any white people. The only one I want to kill is myself. But I won't. I have promises to keep.
The person I confided in last night has no idea the shame I feel, and I don't think they ever will. I don't think I want them to know how badly it hurt. I don't want anyone else to feel this wrenched apart and raw and hideous.
I still love.