to@thetruthampere, thank you for writing this fic! Every time I see an update my mood gets so much better, so this is my thank-you-present, because quite honestly I’m not that good with words! Keep up with the amazing work!
November 14th. In the coffee shop, the man in the Make America Great Again hat smiles at me, so I take this as an invitation.
“Pardon me, but I have to ask— do you think Trump’s ideologies keep every person in this country safe?“
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Ma’am, I can’t get wrapped up in identity politics, all I can worry about is how I’m going to feed my girls.”
At my 40th birthday party, an acquaintance asks why we have “so much Mexican art in the house.”
“It might be because I’m Mexican,” I say.
“No,” he laughs, “you’re not Mexican.”
“Yes. I am.”
“No,” he continues, reassuringly, “and if you are, you’re only, maybe, 17%.“
The winter air stiffens between us. An old, familiar pain.
There was a time when I would have thanked him.
The early years, when I wanted only to pass, to rid myself of my last name— the dead giveaway, its muddy lineage
crawl out from the burying shame that held me down every time my father picked me up from school in our shitty car, his bushy mustache & brown face magnified by the sun.
A local white woman posts a photo of her new tattoo: a Mayan god etched eternal on her flesh. When I point out the disrespect, she assures me she speaks Spanish fluently, spent three years in South America.
For the next six hours, I argue with her friends. They demand I quit being so divisive. Judgemental. Close-minded.
“We have a racist running for President, and you’re complaining about a tattoo?” asks the white boy, who spray paints murals all over this city with impunity.
O, to be permitted the luxury of only worrying about one thing at a time.
O, to be white in America, to wake up knowing every god is your god.
When you never see yourself, you search for yourself all the time.
You know the white girl in the sombrero isn’t you. The bro dude in Calavera makeup isn’t either, not the ponchos and glued on mustaches, not the lowrider Chevy in the Disney movie or the hoochie-coochie sex pot on the Emmy award-winning television show.
Maybe you are only this:
the scorched bird pulled from the chimney, covered in soot. Not the actual bird, its velvet sack of jigsaw’d bones, but the feeling of recognition.
The ash of knowing.
A white comedian tells this joke: “I used to date Hispanics, but now I prefer consensual.”
The audience laughs. And you do, too. Until the punchline hardens, translates into a stone in your throat.
You swallow it, like you always do.
You don’t change the channel, but you also can’t remember a single joke she tells after that.
A few months later, the comedian’s career blows up. She’s so real. So edgy. Such a hardcore feminist. When someone writes an essay on her old stand-up routines— noting her blindspot when it comes to race,
her response is:
“It is a joke and it is funny. I know that because people laugh at it.”
If two Mexicans are in a car, who is driving? A police officer.
How do you starve a Mexican? Put their food stamps in their work boots.
What’s the difference between a Mexican and an elevator? One can raise a child.
What do you call a Mexican baptism? Bean dip
How do you stop a Mexican from robbing your house? Put a help wanted sign in the window.
What do you call a Mexican driving a BMW? Grand theft auto
What do you call a Mexican without a lawnmower? Unemployed
What do you call a building full of Mexicans? Jail
How do you keep Mexicans from stealing? Put everything of value on the top shelf.
What do you call a bunch of Mexicans running downhill? A mudslide.
Why don’t Mexicans play Hide ’n Seek? No one will look for them.
What does a Mexican get for Christmas? Your TV.
What do you call the Arizona man shot to death by his white neighbor, screaming, “Go back to Mexico!” Juan Varela
November 29th. For weeks, I’ve avoided eye contact with strangers. My face is a closed curtain. My mouth, the most decorated knife. I pay for groceries, grab the receipt & let my half-hearted thank yous trail like smoke. I no longer want to see who refuses to see me.
Anyone is everyone.
December 1st. I keep waking up. There isn’t anyone white enough to stop me.
Pantomime the living until the body remembers: wicked bitch. Bloodwhirl. Patron Saint of the Grab Back.
Still. Still. Still. Still. Still. Still here.
I etch my own face upon my wicked flesh. I am my own devastating god.
even the night sky has clouds, they’re just darker
ah-hem! anyways, have this things of the love of my life saeran, because, we all need more of him. i was gonna do seven, but then my tablet decided to update and loose aaallll of my progress :) salty me draws saeran
We Fight, We Breakup, We Fuck, We Makeup- Derek Luh Smut
Request: Could I request an imagine with Derek where we’ve been together for 2 years and we get into a huge fight but we make up with something a bit smutty
Warnings: Cursing and I’ve never written smut before so this might be crappy 🙈😩
I was sitting at home scrolling through Instagram and checking out my Twitter mentions while watching Catfish simultaneously. I put my phone down for a couple seconds to channel surf when I hear a car pull into the driveway.
Derek’s home from the studio. Finally. Lately Derek has been going to the studio and coming back late, but I’ve always fallen asleep before he gets back. I hope there’s nothing I should be worried about.
My thoughts are soon stopped in place when I hear the keys jingle in the door it opens ever so slightly. He walks in and a gust of wind blows through the house. I’m suddenly slapped in the face by a strong scent of alcohol mixed with… weed.
Is he serious right now? We’ve talked about this shit, over and over and he thinks he can get away with it?! No. Not today. Before he sees me, I turn around and walk towards the staircase and sit on the fourth step, my feet resting on the third. Phone in hand, and ready to yell.
He closes the door behind him and stops in his tracks when he sees me sitting on the steps. “Hey baby. How are you,” Derek smiles. I look at him up and down and notice that his eyes are bloodshot red. He’s high right now.
When he notices that I don’t reply, he asks, “What’s wrong, baby?” Still ignoring his questions, I finally speak up. “Did you have fun at the ‘studio’, Derek?,” I ask putting air quotes around studio. “Um, yeah. I got a lot done today,“he lied straight through his teeth. His perfect white teeth that seemed to blind people whenever he smiled. Fuck, Y/N focus.
“Oh really, like what?,” I challenged. I wanted to catch him in his dirty ass lie. “Um, I published a song, wrote some more lyrics, and here I am.”
“Really, Derek? Because you were gone since 8 tonight and currently it’s 2 in the morning. You’re trying to tell me that it took you 6 hours to write a couple songs and publish one? Do you think I’m stupid Derek?,” I ranted standing up on the stairs from getting angry.
“Okay, I’m gonna need you to chill because you’re raising your voice.” Was I raising my voice? I didn’t even notice.
I stepped down that stairs and made my way over to Derek, bringing his clothes towards my nose. Just to show him that I knew he was lying. I look up at him and I see he has a worried expression on his face.
“Huh, smells a little familiar don’t you think? The perfect mix of alcohol and oh what’s that? Weed?,” I say with anger and irritation laced in my voice. “So Derek, is the studio your final answer because I caught you in a damn lie and right now I’m very aggravated.”
He stays silent.“That’s what I thought. You know what Derek, I am so fucking tired of you always lying to me! I’m over it,” I say raising my voice. Yeah, I noticed this time.
“Woah, what do you mean always lying to you? When have I ever lied to you, Y/N?,” Derek asked raising his voice to same level as I did.
“Hmm,” I pretended to think. “How about the fact that you told me you were going to the studio when in reality you went to the club, you promised you’d stop smoking but look at where we are right now and let’s not forget - -.” He cut me off,“OK hold up, who said I smoked weed. You’re always assuming shit, and it’s getting on my fucking nerves,” he yelled at the top of his weed filled lungs. He can’t fool me.
“Oh, I’m assuming shit? Derek, your eyes are bloodshot red, you smell like fucking weed. I’m so done with your shit,” I say walking up the stairs. I get into our shared bedroom, grab my Adidas duffel bag and start stuffing my shit in there.
I jump up in fear when I feel snake their way around my waist. As soon as my brain proceses that it’s Derek, I immediately shake him off of me considering I was still pissed at him. “C'mon babe it was one blunt,” Derek whined. “So you did lie, you’re a fucking, ugh,” I grunted being too angry to finish my sentence.
“Come on, Y/N, we’ve been together for 2 fucking years and you want to leave just because I smoked a blunt tonight,” Derek protested. “It’s not even that Derek,” I say turning around. “It’s the fact that you promised me you’d stop smoking and you went behind my back and still did it. You probably even smoked this whole week, but got away with it because I fell asleep before you got back. So you know what, yes I am leaving,” I say ever so calmly and turning back around to finish packing my stuff.
I’m almost done packing when I am pulled from behind and spun around. I feel pain in my back when I am slammed against the wall with two hands on each side of my body.
I am confused as to what’s going on when I hear Derek whisper,“ I guess now I have to fuck you to remind you how good I am when I’m high.” I almost moan at his words. He moves his lips down to my neck and starts kissing it roughly. I can tell there going to be hickies there in the morning.
Derek continues his actions until I moan. He whispers in my ear again,“Bounce.” I jump up and wrap my legs around Derek’s waist.
Let’s just say we had a lot of fun that night. Maybe I’ll let Derek keep smoking weed.
A/N: Thanks you guys so much for reading. This was requested by the lovely lady: almoststupendousparadise. I love you guys and I’ll talk to y'all soon ✌️🤘👋
Prompt: Hi love!! I
don’t know if you’re taking requests or even have the inspiration to write at
the moment, but I was wondering if you could write a Theo imagine? About him
coming back from hell and meeting the reader for the first time? And she sort
of takes him in because she doesn’t truly know what he’s done or what he was
like and he starts to fall for her but he has all these trust issues??Very
fluffy too please!!! – Anon
Author’s Note: So,
I had this idea to write this to Maddie & Tae’s song “Smoke.” I think it
really fits, and I hope you do too. Hope you like what I came up with! Thanks