#deep stuff
The fact that I can’t remember like 90% of my childhood sometimes makes me wonder if I’ve ever even been a child. Maybe I haven’t and the blurry 10% I believe to remember are just random pictures and szenarios I made up to convince myself that I once was a child.
A bit of a rant, but hear me out. This needs to be said.
If there’s one thing that bothers me about 2017, not like there isnt more (there is but that’s not what i’m talking about today), its racism.
I get it. White people have been hard to other people of color, gender, sexuality, and what not. Your trying to protect yourselves, and I get that. But you really need to stop and look at what your doing and ask yourself, ‘am I being racist?’.
Now, im probibly the last person you want to hear this from, being white. You’re probibly like, ‘How would you know? Your white!’ But believe me my friends. I know all to well.
All this circling negativity around white people has made me become sensitive lately, opening up old scars that iv’e desperately tired to hide and ignore, and salting them. Being white has nothing to do with how your being treated after all. Its the society. There are plenty of white people out there who are not racist, sexist, or anything of the sort. Your mostly pushing those bad images on white people just because of the past. Sure, the loudest tend to be white, but its how society raised them, brain washed them, one might say.
But your probibly still thinking, ‘Your white, you have no idea how that feels.’
Believe it or not, your stereotyping. And thats what got everyone into this mess in the first place.
First off, White people are discriminated against, alot. People assume we have money. They assume that we are against something that could help change the world for the better. They often hate us for things other people did that we had no control over or no connection to.
Secondly, NO ONE gets to choose how they are born. You dont get to choose if you like one gender or the other. You dont choose if your female or male. You dont choose anything! And people just dont seem to quite get that.
So let me tell you alittle story…
Once apon a time, there was a little white girl. She had been born into a white family. Though the family wasn’t pure white, as her father was half native american and her mother had olive skin. Thing was, this little girl didn’t inherit any of the traits. The Swedish in her blood showed the most in the family.
This little white girl was born into a cult, as did her parents. Over half of the church had been black, the other half white with plenty of money. While the little white girl’s family wasn’t rich, they weren’t poor either. However, the pastor took most of the money the family earned, so it seemed as if they didnt have that much money.
The family thought they were doing good, helping the pastor in god’s name, though the pastor kept treating them like dirt. Eventually, the church they attended became too old to use anymore, so the pastor had church held inside the little white girl’s home.
After some time, the pastor and his wife seemed to live there, forcing the little white girl and her family around. When the little white girl and her siblings wanted to play outside, the pastor would force them inside. When they wanted to play inside, the pastor told them they were a bother and forced them out.
The little white girl’s father wasn’t home, as he was stationed in another state by the military most of her life. Her mother was often told to work, but when she did, they told her she was being selfish and told her to quit. It was a never ending cycle for the poor mother.
Often times, people from the church would show up un-announced, drop off their kid with out a word, and leave expecting no fee. Other times, the little white girl’s baby-sitter would often let in strange men. As a result to these events, in the future, the little white girl would have blanks in her memory that she would be too afraid to touch.
In time, the girl’s father was stationed in Hawaii, and they followed suit, wanting to be a family again. While the Church wasn’t happy, they saw no loss, as they were just slaves to them.
Reunited in Hawaii, the father was now there, but only physically. Often times, he’d make the little white girl clean endlessly while her siblings played outside. The father still gave money to the church, but spent the rest on himself. Soon enough, the little white girl and her siblings were wearing clothes two sizes too small.
At school, the little white girl had developed a nervous cough. The kids would often stay away from the little white girl as she was white and nervous around others. They didn’t like her. They called her names, kept new kids away saying she had ‘cooties’, and took her only friend away saying that she could hang out with the popular kids if she left her. The little white girl’s only other friend had left her thinking she had spilled a secret, which she did not.
Between all of this, her parents had left the cult and started fighting. The little white girl had never cared for the cult to begin with, and this sudden fight didn’t frighten her at all. She felt nothing towards her father, as she didn’t see him as her father.
Slowly, the little white girl’s insecurities grew and grew. Often times, the little white girl wanted to rip off her own skin, as she knew that was half of the cause of the constant pain she was going through. She knew she couldn’t, so instead, she grew up hating the color of it. The little white girl didn’t want to be white. Her mother and siblings were a pretty olive, while her father and a younger brother had dark skin after a sun bath. They didn’t get yelled at as often as she.
The other adults in Hawaii had often talked poorly about white people, about their hate for the past. The children listened and grew up surrounded in it. However, while the little white girl’s family was white, they weren’t as white as she was.
The little white girl moved with her mother and siblings after her parent’s divorce, but the little white girl grew up in that hatred for her own skin. Later in life, she was looked down apon for her body, and slowly, more and more, did the little white girl regret life. She no longer just hated her skin, but she hated her gender, the way she spoke, the way she looked, her dull blue eyes and dull brown like hair.
She grew up seething in that hate she was born in. And to be honest, she still is.
I understand that there are many with a story like this, but you all seem to take it out on a set of people instead of the ones who really caused you agony. While the little white girl knew it was racism that was causing this, she didn’t hate blacks or Hawaiians. She hated the people that knew they were causing this. Thankfully, the pastor and his wife pasted away, very painfully (cancer), so even though the grown up white girl still disliked certain people, her hate was a little less with the worst people she had ever come to meet was now gone for good.
All of this hate reminds me of those days that I don’t want to remember. I accept them and move on, but these events lately have been forcing my past forward. Ignoring my problems may have not been the best thing, but it was working for me. Its not like I can get help with any of this anyways, people still don’t care enough. And it hurts. But lately I’ve began to hate my skin again.
I try often, to love the imperfections of myself. While I may dye my hair, I’ve grown to love how soft and fluffy it becomes. I have a birthmark in my eyes and its fairly rare. I’m at a size where I can sympathize with both small and tall people. My weight isn’t super heavy, but enough so a body slam hurts. The way my body is shaped is convenient for singing and dancing (though im not good at either). I have a unique accent, as I’ve moved too much. I hate being female, still, but the gender norms have taught me about self care. My white skin is the only thing I still dislike, but its not like I can change it (well I can for cosplay but people show twice as much hate when one does so).
Trying to love myself is hard, and it would have been much easier if I didn’t go through what I had, but that’s not something I can change.
I often have to tell myself; My parents love me. I don’t have control over how I was born. This is not my fault. None of this is my fault.
But what many of you do, its making me question that. Little words slip in like ‘its your fault’, ‘stop being so white’, and ‘white’s are always like this’.
If you love anything in this world, you’ll stop and question whether what your doing is right.
