i actually… love people who double or triple or infinity text … what are you excited about because i’m excited too! message me seven times please i’m glad you have a lot to say and i am willing to listen!!
alioquii
a few divine and prophetic feelings:
- soaking up sunlight as though it were honey and liquid gold. it feels as though it softens the edges of your form, the light, the warmth, until the border between you and the air and the dust and the water are indistinguishable
- the quiet moments in the dark, alone. the walls enclosing you dissolve into the emptiness of your room, and sometimes, in that silence, something holy fills that space. personally, i’m not sure what
- in the back of a car, all passengers wordless, the radio having dissipated into something unintelligible to your ears, but if you listen closely enough, you think there might be the whispers of angels
Mario Kart is like real life: The person in first place is way ahead while the rest of us are in a big group, fucking each other up, fighting for 11th-2nd place, complaining about how the person in 12th place always gets the best items, but they are so far behind, those items don’t actually help.
Today was an upsetting reminder about the lack of empathy white people have for people of colour. A customer came in and he asked, “Should I call you Fred? Cause I can’t pronounce what’s on your nametag.”
Fair enough, though he worded it oddly. I forced a laugh and told him how to pronounce my name. Twice. And after the second time, he disregarded me. Told me he was just going to call me Fred. Now, I have a weird relationship with my name. I love it, I really do. But there’s this sense of apologetic-guilt attached to it. Sorry it’s so long, sorry you can’t pronounce it etc. That onus is hardly on me, but life’s funny like that.
In this moment though? I didn’t even get to feel apologetic-guilty. I didn’t get to feel anything. I was too busy being accommodating. Because from the moment he forced a nickname on me, I had to endure 5 min or so of the customer and my assistant manager joking at my expense.
Back and forth they went. “I’m not being politically incorrect!” “You’re so bad.” “She wants me to call her Fred!” And so on. POC being forced to endure being the butt of white humour is nothing new, lest we be seen as easily offended. But that moment was still so surreal. I was the subject but I felt so distant from the topic at hand. These people were joking about my name.
I was made to endure my great-grandmother and country of origin being mocked for 5+ min.
After the fact I’m not ashamed to admit I cried. I really would’ve liked to tell the manager, “You know, I hope that guy does learn my name. Because I was named after my great-grandmother, and she was named after a national hero.” But I cried instead. Because how do you remind someone not to mock your name? Why should I even be put in a situation that uncomfortable and odd in the first place?
But I was. Because that customer and my manager, like so many other white people on a daily basis, forgot that I’m human too.
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Untitled (You Construct Intricate Rituals Which Allow You To Touch The Skin Of Other Men)
Barbara Kruger 1981
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me, with tears in my eyes: time to make a joke
