Tag Archive | Solange

Dear White People . . . I Have the Right to Be Angry

*If you are my friend and you are White, – if this offends you, contact me.  Have the difficult conservation with me.  If you aren’t willing to have a conversation with me about this, we aren’t really friends.*

I’ve started to see every white person I don’t know as the enemy/a threat.  I’m not exactly sure when it first started, but it was probably around the time that Mike Brown was murdered.  I didn’t grow up afraid of White people. Even though my mother made sure I knew the history of the United States, I lived the first 32 years of my life believing in the goodness of all people, regardless of their skin color.

I THOUGHT I understood racism.  I thought racism was dying out, and racism was just based on old ideals, in the south. I thought as we spent more time conversing and getting to know each other, racism would die.  After all, “Some of my BEST FRIENDS ARE WHITE.” They love me and I love them. They’ve never treated me any differently because I was Black*.

Racism is the herpes of -isms. Sometimes you forget it’s even there. But then, there is a flare up that very lewdly reminds you, “Oh Bitch, I NEVER Left.” It’s been there, lurking under the surface just waiting to ruin your whole got damn day. Be it the random white dude who won’t let you over on the freeway, to the lady checking your math, right after you give her the total, about money She Owes You. Or even, The News.

Before Mike Brown, I felt like the bad apples would eventually see the error in their ways, and we would all live together in harmony. Post-Ferguson, when people I’ve known my whole life wouldn’t stand up and speak up, I was . . . lost/hurt/angry/frustrated/devastated/other words that mean angry.

Why aren’t you fighting for me and my people? Why aren’t you in the streets, and talking to your family members about what is going on in the news? How could you even let the words come out of your mouth, “Well if he wouldn’t have . . . “

Strangers were livid about the collective rage coming from Black Millennials. They were livid that we were standing up for ourselves and being vocal about injustice. I’d never seen such ugly comments on internet articles. The wave of unarmed children, women, and men, killed by police officers, that followed Mike Brown’s murder has done nothing to illicit rage in some my White Counterparts.

They keep killing my people! Even children in the park aren’t safe! My skin color puts me in immediate danger every hour of every day! I’m afraid when I drive at night to get pulled over by a cop.  Help Me! Speak Up for Me! Can’t you see my pain! HELP ME!

It was at this point I realized the real issue.  The ROOT of Racism, is WHITE. PRIVILEGE. {a term for societal privileges that benefit people identified as white in Western countries, beyond what is commonly experienced by non-white people under the same social, political, or economic circumstances.}

Add to that a sense of Entitlement, and we are all pretty much fucked.  Because YOU don’t want the status quo to change.  You are safe, comfortable, and happy with the way YOU are treated in the world we currently live in.  In your bubble, nothing is wrong.  Because you don’t worry about your children when they go out to play, why should you notice/protest that I have to have that worry?

Enter All Consuming Rage.

I am WORTH your concern.  How DARE you live a life of blissful ignorance, with my people’s blood running in the street?!?!?!?! My Life Matters.

BLACK. LIVES. MATTER.

That’s not a fucking Slogan. It’s a truth. And the fact that your response is, “All Lives Matter,” is not only insulting, but Bullshit.  The correct phrase should be, “All Lives that Mimic My Own Matter.”

I’ve started to re-evaluate everything I ever knew about the people around me.  I’ve started to look at certain situations, and ask new questions. I find myself assuming motivations, before I start a conversation to actually understand motivations.

Then I’m pissed again, because that’s what YOU do. It’s why I’m angry in the first place. The difference between me and YOU, I catch myself.

I do the FUCKING WORK. I take the next step, acknowledge my hurt/pain/fear and it’s affect on the situation, and try to make sure I’ve done everything to understand your point of view and/or educate you.

I’m tired. I’m  FUCKING Exhausted.

Because I have to do my work, your work, and extra work.  I’m So Damn Tired. Why won’t you do the work? Why won’t you talk to the people in your life that refuse to listen to me? Help Me Please!!! I’m so tried of carrying this burden on my own.

{I went to the doctor because I was feeling off last week.  My blood pressure was 200/148. That’s no hyperbole. This is why I’m tired. It’s a miracle I haven’t stroked out yet.}

And this has caused my current mindset to be, “If you aren’t For Us, you’re Against Us.”

I have the right to be angry.  The fact that I haven’t started fighting people in the street is a testament to my fairly decent upbringing, and my need to keep my job. Stop telling me why I should turn the other cheek.  Stop telling me it’s going to get better, especially if you aren’t actively working to make it better.

I’m done trying to be nice, and quiet, and calm.  I’m Fucking Angry.

Do something, or shut-up. Point. Blank. Period.

 

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White Picket Dreams or TAMC Part 2a

I’m sitting here looking at this old canvas
And the picture looks so different from you
Yes it does, yes it does
Maybe it’s time to go back to the drawing board
Cause it’s likely that the man I drew is fictional

Here’s the thing . . . I haven’t listened to this album in a while.  I can’t tell you why, I just haven’t.  But thanks to my Spotify Discover Weekly, this song popped up, and Solange changed my life again.  Cuz I’ve been painting over the same canvas for years.  That image of the perfect family, the perfect life, the perfect relationship.  I continue to try to make people (men and women) I meet fit on one of the canvases I created in college, that was supposed to represent what my life should be.  Even while knowing the canvas is bullshit.  Because it is.

For five long years
I thought you were my man
But I found out
I’m just a link in your chain

It took me 10 years to get over my first love (TBTLINY). Through mostly no fault of his own, I was just holding on to the hope that we could make it work.  Because the connection was so deep, and the love was so strong. It just HAD to work. But in real life, he was just meant to be my friend (I think). {I might still be holding out hope that he will come to his senses, so sue me.  You don’t know my life.} But he’s been the prototype, for everyone that has come afterward.  They have to make me feel like I did when I first heard his voice, I have to want to be with them like I wanted to be with TBTLINY. The connection had to be that strong. Repainting on the same canvas.

If I could… could forget him, I would… please believe me
And I know that I should throw the towel in
But baby it’s not… not that easy
You treat me so much better than him, And if I was sane there’d be no competition

But… but I’m in love with someone else (ooh)
And I’m so sorry hey hey
I’m in love with another man
And I know it ain’t right

Instead of trying to heal, you tried to move on.  Even though you weren’t ready.  You might have even found a good guy/girl.  But you were still staring at that old canvas.  Longing for the life you had created in your head and your heart.  It’s so hard to let go of the image, once it’s been solidified in your mind.  That painting is stuck to the walls, and it’s not coming down until it wants to.

I used to cry myself to sleep at night
But that was all before he came
I thought love had to hurt to turn out right
But now he’s here
It’s not the same, it’s not the same

So then you meet this new person, and they can do all the things.  They make you smile all day, and you feel all the feelings, and they fit the mold.  Finally, you can take that portrait off the wall, and start making a new one.  But instead of starting over, you use the outline of the last painting to create this one.At first, it works perfectly.  Slowly but surely, it’s the little things that don’t quite fit.  The painting starts to go outside the lines. They don’t quite seem so perfect, you start to see the flaws, the colors start changing, lines get blurred.  Once again, the picture in your head was wrong.

Some of you know what it feels like
Caught up just in his life
Don’t wanna try again, thinking what’s the difference?
Why am I not interested?
Cause when you’ve been broken, you feel like no one can fix it

I’ve decided to stop painting.  I just . . . Quit. And I’m okay with that. Clearly, me trying to control every bit of this isn’t working. So I’m done now.  I just needed to say that.  Cuz yeah.  That’s the conclusion I reached yesterday. Just stop trying, cuz Adulting is hard enough without trying to be a master painter.

My need to control every little part of my life is driving me crazy.  I can say that now, probably because when this blog is published, not that many people will read it.  I wrote this a few months ago, but then I didn’t publish it.  At the time, it was because I couldn’t get the Spotify links to work right . . . But you know, everything in time.  So I’ll post it now, and let this be another part of Confession #2.