chicks, pants, showing it all, dancing


See the Shadows of Innocence and Sanity

a shadow of the day

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chicks, pants, showing it all, dancing
From Nisha.

I am not sure when I will warm up. And the ache will set in sooner or later.

I guess… I guess it just ticks me off that there is always a cloud on my good days. Not literal clouds (though, if you counted today…), but parental ones.

I have yet to hang out with my friends without paranoia setting in. I am afraid I will get caught (Caught having fun. Caught without my sister in tow. Caught doing something Mommy and Daddy would not approve of.). I am afraid I will be seen. (Because being seen leads to fear. Fear leads to anger. Anger to hate. Hate to punishment later when the story reaches their ears.) This city is far too small for me not to know someone who will tell my parents they saw me at such-and-such a place at a certain time. And that leads to all kinds of trouble. Because I was not meant to be there. With those people. Without anyone knowing.

It is the rain on my parade.

The pin that bursts my bubble.

My karma.

I guess I do believe in a version of karma. The universe seems to balance itself when it comes to my life. A good day is countered by a fear of being seen and a lecture/the cold shoulder when it comes up later. (I know they always know… but how?) Having lunch and hanging out with my friends and going to a movie is cheapened by the rain at all times of the day and the inescapable fear of being seen.

(This is why I want to be invisible. The most useful power for a superhero.)

What I am doing hurts no one. Not even my wallet. But what hurts is the criticism.

So I like being with white people more than black. Do you know why? Black people hate me. I am proof that you can be black… half black, live in a rougher section of town and be a genius. Not every black kid is in sports or listens to rap or smokes Blacks dipped in cough syrup. I do not use Ebonics (and I rarely cuss or use slang. It is just not me.) and there are times when I do not even understand it. I am not militant and I am not average. I am half white, so I am lighter and I have pretty good hair. Innate prejudices among blacks puts me right up there on the Envy/Hate list. The only reprieve—use me for my intellect so you can pass class.

I live in a predominantly black neighborhood, and I listen to rock music. I have had black friends. Really, my pool of friends consists of anyone who will talk to me. Black, White, Oriental… whatever.

I do not need to hear from my grandmother that I am a Jeff Davis Nigger. House slave. (Ah’ll do uh dance fo’ya, Massah!) Would you have me call up the few black friends I made? The ones who will still talk to me? That’s zero. None like me (or, none remember me. Fourth grade was a long time ago.) enough to call to say “How are you? You wanna have lunch?” I was, and remain, a means to an end.

So, go ahead. Criticize me for knowing that I cannot talk to certain people about Anime and rock and odd leather shops. I know what conversation goes to whom. And I know exactly what I am saying when I say that the criticism hurts worse than any beating. Because it can be brought up over and over again.

When I am out with my friends, I cannot enjoy myself half as much. There is a cloud of fear, anger and criticism, just waiting. Waiting to rain on my parade.


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