Black people are tired of having their humanity dismissed

I’m tired.  I never thought that I’d be this tired at 32 years old.  However, being a black woman in America, I’ve been on high alert for as long as I can remember and that cannot be good for my cortisol level.

If you haven’t been living under a rock, I’m sure that you’ve heard all about the murder of Michael Brown in Ferguson, MO.

Some people think that racism is dead.  They are being deliberately obtuse.

Other people think that racism still exists, but it isn’t that bad because it doesn’t look like the horrible pictures and documentaries from history class.  They also have the brass ones to say that minorities bring it upon ourselves because we continue to think that we are oppressed.

Both of these groups of people can eat shit and live.

Because being black in America is being subjected to countless macro- and micro-aggressions daily since childhood.

  • Nearly all images/portrayal of my people in American media are negative or rooted in gross stereotypes. The Cosby Show was a fluke.  The average white American is more likely to treat me as a potential welfare recipient than as the next Claire Huxtable.  Imagine growing up in a country where your race was associated with all things wrong and dysfunctional.
  • Having to be twice as good to get the half (if any) the accolades.  Holla if you hear me and you got this talk from your parents and grandparents.  I could cure all cancers tomorrow, you know would I get called in some parts of America? A nigger.
  • Having to be always mindful how our speech and body language can be construed as threatening when we are just living.  I remember my ex telling me how he has always been very cautious of his movements or having too much bass in his voice when expressing himself because he could end up in jail or worse because of the automatic negative connotations of black men and their masculinity.  And then I thought about how many of my male relatives had said the same thing. Ronan Farrow just did an interview where he said his mother had to teach his black adopted brother that he couldn’t do certain things.
  • Our credentials are constantly questioned.  We get told that we only got into college because we’re black.  We got that job because we’re black.  It’s rarely acknowledged that we worked hard or that we were the best candidate.  “Are you sure you can afford to shop here? You’re black, you know.”  Let me follow you in the store from aisle to aisle insuring that you don’t steal anything. “Well Obama should show his birth certificate.”  I wish a motherfucker would ask to see my Goddamned birth certificate when I’ve been vetted by NSA, CIA, DOD, and every other damn agency in this country. Since he has the nuclear launch codes, bitch, he’s an American.
  • Being treated as a special unicorn when you’re just like countless other black people.  “You’re not ghetto like other black people.  You’re the whitest black girl/guy I know. ” White people…these are not compliments.
  • Being treated as a magical negro.  I may be a great listener and I have a sympathetic face, but I’m not your mammy and random black men are not your Uncle Ben. We don’t give a hot damn about your problems.  We have our own problems.  Find someone else to tell you that “You is kind.  You is good.  You is important.”
  • Being treated as invisible or interchangeable.  You could have said excuse me instead of practically running me over with your shopping cart.  Oh so you see me in a meeting and you burst right in and talk over me and only stop to apologize when someone calls you out on it. Okay. I’m 100% certain of my name, random colleague.  Repeating the name of another black person like I have a hearing difficulty is not going to change that.  You want the other black lady that sits on the floor that’s taller and several shades different from me.

I could go on all night but there’s a documentary waiting for me for to watch.  The point that I’m trying to make here is that from birth to death to after-life, we are treated with disregard and then people have the nerve to say that we’re the aggressive ones.  No, we’re the tired ones.  We’re tired of asking our fellow citizens to left their masks of privilege to see how dangerous and stressful systematic dismissal of our humanity is.

I gave a short list of the crap that we deal with in America.  Yet, we’re supposed to put on a happy face and pretend that we’re not mentally/physically hurt by all of this foolishness.

My friend Brownie always says that black people suffer from PTSD.  I’m starting to believe her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Project Pika: New Office

Another weekend, another home improvement project!  It’s hard to believe that I’ve almost been in my house for a year.

A month ago, I took on my first home improvement project by doing something about that ghastly front garden.

Last weekend, I fixed up my office.  It’s the smallest bedroom in the house and it looked rather shabby. All I had in it where some Container Store drawers and a folding table for a desk.   Just sad all around.

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I decided to paint and fix the room up.  My bedroom has already been painted by the handyman last year, but the rest of the bedrooms remain plain cream white.  So Friday, I picked out my paint using an app on Sherwin Williams website: Delicious Melon, which despite what my simple cousin says does not sound like the name of a fat stripper.

On Saturday, I went to the store to buy the paint and supplies.  Why was I there for an hour?  It wasn’t the fault of the employees but two other customers that decided that needed 50-11 paint samples because they couldn’t make up their damn minds.  Look people!  Ain’t nobody got time for that.  I despise indecisiveness; especially when it holds up my progress.

I came home and prepped the room and then I began my painting journey. It wasn’t that difficult, just a tad messy.  I remembered what the handyman did and I watched some YouTube videos on painting and I think that I did a decent job.  My friend Kara came by later that day and she said it looked well done.

Now on to Sunday.  Oh, Sunday.   I go to Ikea to buy the desk and shelving unit that I picked out a week previously.  OMG.  One would think Ikea was giving free furniture and meatballs away.   It took forever to turn into the parking garage and then to find a parking space.

It was so crowded inside the store.   They weren’t giving away free meatballs, but a lot of furniture items were on sale.   I took more pictures of items for my next project and then made my way to self-service to grab my items.

Why do I always forgot that Ikea furniture is actually heavy?  Some chap took pity on me and helped me to load the heavy desk package into my car.   When I got home, I had to open the desk package to bring it into the house piece by piece.

After several hours, I had a new desk and shelving unit built, new hemmed curtains, and a viable office space.

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Over the new few days, I’ll start organizing and moving documents out of the living and dining rooms and into their proper place.

I’m slowly pulling it all together.  Now to plan the improvement of the guest room.

 

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