From the side of the oppressor

The last two days have been filled with triggers triggering the pieces blowing off of me. Yesterday, everyone seems ready to kill kids, queer kids, my kids, and all of us. I find it so hard to articulate my thoughts, when I can't slow them down enough to catch. I'm chasing and chasing these thoughts, knowing if I just hold still, these thoughts will come to me. Come and curl up next to me. Purring as they reassure me, of how I can be, or what I could be. But aint.

I aint good enough, aint strong enough, aint smart enough to give up. No matter what these people are saying and even when what I'm saying aint flowing I aint stopping. Because I can't. I can't stop or pause, or press resume on the DVD of my memory, I just keep going.

I lost the remote, she lost the remote, maybe the goddamn thing didn't even come with a remote, I sure don't remember directions.

Directions to turn on, plug in, blue parts, red parts, yellow parts, all connected by black chords reminiscent of the chords I see on the honors graduates and in the history of my country. Chords to tie back scalps, taken from our "Indians," chord to tie off air from the blacks- for daring to look up, look back, or just open their eyes towards a white woman.

And in this white woman body of mine, I look down and see… I see skin, flesh, amongst my anatomy of scars and strips left when my lovers haven't been good enough for me. In my body, I see colorblind racism, as I'm loving her olive skin, I see colorblind racism as I'm recognizing what it took for me to get in—

To a place where all I see around me is me, and I don't have to think about who my forefathers were, it's the dominant history. I am not anti-racist, I am not colorblind. I don't know what it's like to reconseptualize everything about my ancestry, when nothing I see represents me.

Because everything I see represents me. My history is learned into the palms of my hands, the deep red I burn when I stare at the sun too long, my ivory legs under thick brown hair, represent not only a part of me, but an accurate representation of America. America, the land that we love, the land of opportunity- for people like me.

And if I feel the need to change myself, there are so many ways I can distract my views and redirect my energy into who I want to be. My makeup come in flesh colored, and my nylons in skin, to cover up the hair I feel like drowning in.

I can't say the same for you, even if I want it to. This is America. And we are not all born equal. Isn't that as fucked up as it's gonna be? No? then why are we protesting, rejecting and twisting the stereotypes of the different people we see? To change something? To reassure ourselves of diversity? Diversity means other, and other I can be.

Other in my ivory skin of lesbian and queer identity. Other in my views and distaste for monogamy. Other in who I choose to love, to fuck as I'm resisting these normative notions of sexuality. Yet, me being diverse is not what anyone would choose to be. Me being ahead and behind because of white, white, white, pale skin is not who I choose to be, or what I settle for in my fight for reparations for ones not me. Me falling behind because of who I love and who loves me, is something I'll fight to fuck up in this fucked up, heteronormative, capitalist society. I'll rip off the pieces I can reach of my internalized position as an oppressor and say look… I'm ragged and not perfect, fuck off, here's me.