this transethnic shit? nah, son.
A line has been drawn, and you ain’t crossin that shit today. unless you are actually a transethnic adoptee, taken from your own culture as a child and inserted into a new one, you are not what the fuck you want to be.
My ethnicity is in part what my ancestors carried over here with them — what’s left of it — and in part what was forced upon them, and thereby upon me. You don’t have that, that never happened? You can’t claim it.
My race was forced upon me and mine, based on my skin color and my parentage (good old “one drop rule,” remember that?). You don’t have that, that didn’t happen? You can’t claim that either.
My Blackness, as defined by white folks the world over, has been a means and an excuse for races and cultures all over the fucking globe, including yours, to step on me and treat me as less than human, as a soulless thing that now has to be tolerated because (locally) Constitutional Law and the (globally) UN says so.
As one who does not share this background, who will never have this experience, who is of the fucking oppressive class/culture/race, you don’t get to say “We took everything else, we gon’ just snatch this up, too?”
No. You cannot — you will not — think I’m going to just sit here and let you tell me that this is one more fucking thing I have to stand for in my quest for equity. Not equality, mother fucker. Equity.
You and yours, you took us, slapped chains on us and called us yours. You took our children from the arms of their mothers and called them yours. You took fathers from their families and called them yours. You took our languages. You took our histories. You took everything from us. When you were forced to let go, you slapped legal bindings on us and called us yours. You took our music, repackaged it, and called it yours. You took our styles, our fashions, our clothes, repackaged them, and called them yours. You took our skin, repackaged it as a leathery fucking tan worthy of a Coach handbag, and called it yours. You took our hair (remember those fucked-up 80s perms?) and the term “natural hair,” after we fought long and hard for the right to wear it, and called it yours. You have taken everything.
And now that we’ve endured it all, fought for it all, struggled with it all, been broken and even died en masse for the little we have, you want this, too? You want the experience without the fight that laid low so many of us? You want the title without the struggle by which it was earned? You want to wear Blackness without having been Black?
You can’t have it.
As they say, real recognize real, and bitch I DON’T KNOW YOU.
I will not try to understand. It is you who do not understand, and it is because of your white privilege that you do not understand. You have been swimming in that privilege so long, it’s starting to stink.
Also, fuck you for even considering you can say that word. You can’t. I don’t give a fuck who you think you are inside your heart of hearts, dried-up and desiccated thing that it must be. That word has too much fucking history and pain and death behind it for you to snatch it up and taste it like a fucking hors d’oeuvre, I don’t give a fuck what internal struggles your white ass is having.
In short, fuck you.
TRIGGER WARNING FOR RAPE CULTURE, STREET HARASSMENT
To the first man, who I met by the Eiffel Tower my second week in Paris, when I didn’t know better. Who took me out four times, who waved little red flags that I tried to ignore. Like asking me outright if I was a virgin on the first date, like calling me five different pet names when I’d asked him not to throughout the second, like saying he’d heard that feminists were not real women during the third, like disappearing for a week and a half after the fourth. Who, as it turns out, was not the bullet, but the careening fourteen-wheeler that I narrowly managed to dodge. Who admitted that he hit the young woman that his mother was trying to force him to marry. Who didn’t want to marry her because he believes in romantic love. Who doesn’t see the contradiction in those two sentences.
To the guy in my medieval literature class, who lent me one of Camus’ plays and showed me around the library. Who wants to use his French education not to escape to the West, but to go back to his third-world home country to teach at its eight-year-old university. Who I admired until he asked me what my American boyfriend had thought about me coming to Paris, until he demanded to know why I didn’t have one (a boyfriend, that is), until he asked if it was required that I marry an American. Who reached out and touched my earrings, without asking, the next time he saw me. Who won’t take a hint.
To the PhD student who tried to take me up to his apartment after a five minute conversation, when I had just wanted to get lunch, who said there’s a first time for everything. Who told me that we were university students, living in a 21st century democracy, and that relations between men and women were different now, so what was I so scared of? Who recoiled in shock when I told him that I had friends who’d been raped, and by other university students, at that. Who does not have to think about rape on a daily basis. Who insisted on paying for my lunch, because “it was a matter of honor.” Who then physically prevented me from handing my money to the cashier, when I was trying to make it clear that this was not a date. Who didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t want a boyfriend, five times. Whose number I blocked the moment I stepped on the metro. Who has called me three times since. Who told me he wants to go into Senegalese politics. Who, I can only hope, will listen to the women of his country better than he listened to me.
To the delivery guy on the red motorcycle idling outside of the apartments on Avenue de Porte de Vanves, the ones I walk past every day, who said bonsoir and who, because I said it in return to be polite, followed me to the metro as I walked, head twisted down, pretending that I didn’t understand the language I’ve studied for eight years.
To the two men Thursday night in le Marais, swaggering drunk toward me, ignoring the male friend standing by my side, who leered at my chest and slurred, “Bonsoir, comme tu es mignonne,” as I shoved past them, trying to sound angry, not afraid. Who left me feeling fidgety and panicked, so when I took the night bus in the wrong direction and found myself alone with two other strange men at a bus stop at 2:30 A.M., I let the cab driver fleece me out of 25 euro just to take a taxi home.
To the group of teenage boys loitering on the corner by my apartment, who decided to sound a siren at my approach because I was wearing a knee-length dress and a bulky sweater. Who made me regret forgoing tights because I had wanted to feel the spring air on my calves for once. Who will never have to wear an itchy pair of pantyhose in their entire lives. To whom I said nothing, because I still have to walk past that corner twice a day for the next three-and-a-half months, because there were five of them and one of me.
To the three men standing on the corner of the periphery five minutes later when I was crossing the street. To the one who motioned for his friends to turn and look at me, quick, and then left his wolf-whistle ringing in my ears, shame like sunburn covering my face. Who didn’t care that it was broad daylight. Who made me wish that I could swear a blue streak back in French, without my accent betraying that I am American, which is another word for “easy” here.
To the two men at sunset on the bridge by Saint Michel, in the middle of tourist central, who made skeeting noises at me, like a pair of sputtering mosquitoes, to get my attention. Who laughed when I flipped them off, and who kept hissing at me anyway. Who forced me to keep checking over my shoulder, all the way to the metro, to make sure that I wasn’t being followed.
But also to the French friend who blamed my problems with French men on my university in the northern suburbs, a Parisian synonym for emeutes, gang violence, and immigration. Who insisted that if he brought me to his upper-crust private (white) university—where the French elite reproduces itself into perpetuity—I would meet nicer French guys. Who forced me to defend the men who’d harassed me against his barely-veiled, racist critique.
And also to the American friend at home who nearly rolled his eyes as he half-listened to my stories, who said, “Oh god, it’s hard being so attractive, isn’t it?” as if I was being vain. Who laughs and does not understand why I always duck out of the frame of photographs, who knows nothing of what my body means to me.
And that’s just two months in Paris.
To all the Italian men who made me wish I had dyed my hair black before studying in Florence, who kept me from going out dancing because I got sick of feeling them creeping up behind me, sneaking their hands around my waist (and lower) when I’d already said NO three times.
To the six-foot-something Georgetown student who prided himself on protecting the girls from being groped on the dance floor. Who chose to write about the rape of the Sabine woman for that week’s assignment. Who described the way her breast slipped free of her tunic when she fell, as if he was writing a porno, not a rape scene, who had the woman fall in love with her Roman rapist the next morning, after he spun her a tale of the coming glory of his country. Who said “in a fit of passion, she thrust herself upon his member” and was not joking. Who ended the story with the titular character saying to her children that she had been raped, but only at first.
To the seventh-grade boy who told my younger sister that he could rape her, if he wanted to.
To the gang of twenty-five year-olds in the Jeep who hollered at her as they drove past, leering at her thirteen-year-old body dressed in sweat pants and a tank top. Who made my sister, fearless on the soccer field and in the classroom and in the karate studio, run home crying. Who were the reason she became afraid to walk the dog by herself in our “safe, suburban” neighborhood.
To my father, who said, “What white male privilege?” Who was not being ironic.
“We have to look like we care.”
Not, “We have to care,” or “We have to do something!” or “We need to fix this.”
Nope. Just admitting that they’re fully aware that they have to fake it, because they realize if they don’t, they will have a problem on their hands.
That’s why Chief Lee stepped down “temporarily”. That’s why Zimmerman moved out of his house with no fear of reprisal.
Because folks are out there pretending to care.
Some of them care. I feel like I have to look like I care about that right now, because if I don’t, some folks will be all up in my inbox complaining about how I make them feel. And if this makes you mad, I’m probably talking to you.
I tell you about white folks. Always wanting POC to see things in their racist ass white supremacist view.
I wondered ALL the fucking time why there were no brown princesses. I wondered WHY I didn’t see ANYBODY who looked like me.
Cinderella, Aurora, Snow White, Ariel, Alice, Belle, Giselle, Megara, . Jasmine and Mulan were 2 drops in the whole.
When the live action multi-racial Rogers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella came out with Brandy as the main character???
I watched that fucking tape so much that I broke the VHS strip. Because I CLUNG to the fact that a black woman FINALLY got a fucking narrative that involved a black girl becoming a princess. Being valued and loved by all. Being seen as the ultimate beauty.
And then white folks want to talk like PaTF was the second coming of Jesus and so we uppity nigrahs should be happy.
White folks want to talk shit about how “children don’t see color.” Imma need you to take that colorblind bullshit out of here.
The DOLL TEST, bitch. Watch it. Watch that shit and tell me black children don’t internalize the RACIST ASS STRUCTURES THAT EXIST.
Well you know little brown children aren’t human, or children, so they can’t possibly have feelings or imaginations. I mean really, how dare we act like brown skin = complex human beings? That privilege is reserved for white people.
I knew this would happen, but I don’t know if I can handle it. I’m already fucking reaching my limit.
As Arkh sees more eyes, there is more misinformation and more bullshit.
More white people fucking bawwing about how they’re not included. Fuck you, don’t care, and guess what? You don’t get to be good guys. Though one of you will be a “nice guy”, but I think you know what that means. AND I GIVES NO FUCKS.
People who aren’t queer PoC silently demanding to be included with disclaimers of “I know you don’t have to”, over and over and over again.
Someone fucking asked if OTHERKIN would be included.
THE ONLY FUCKING PEOPLE I PROMISE WILL BE IN THIS GAME ARE QUEER. PEOPLE. OF. COLOR.
I reserve the right to change ANYTHING about ANYBODY outside of there being QUEER PEOPLE OF COLOR.
I’m so tired of this bullshit that says if you include some things you need to include everything or you’re an asshole. The only promise I’ve made is that this game will be about QUEER. PEOPLE. OF. COLOR.
Oh, and fuck the bitch who assumed that 1) Haruka is a man. Seriously. HARUKA. HA. RU. FUCKING. KA. and 2) Haruka is the main character. OHHHHHHHH SO SORRY. Five fucking seconds on the Arkh page woulda shown you that U RONG! U. RONG. 3) That Haruka is a “rich, heterosexual god”. OHHHHHHHH TEN SECONDS ON HARUKA’S PAGE WOULD HAVE LET YOU KNOW THAT HARUKA IS THE ONLY FUCKING CHARACTER WHO IS NOT A GOD. They’re a SERVANT. TO A DEITY. WHO IS THE BROWN CHICK STANDING NEXT TO THEM. Oh, and Aina’s PALE? WHAT? SIT THE FUCKING FUCK DOWN. WE FUCKING PHOTOSHOPPED HER DARKER PURPOSELY. This is TWO characters out of EIGHT (but of course if you think Haruka is the main character, and though you probably don’t know about the OTHER SIX CHARACTERS). Neelu is going to be DELICIOUSLY dark, and Queen Zahira will be black. Literally. Darker than the night fucking sky. She’ll make Alex motherfucking Wek jealous of her blackness. BLACKITY BLACK. BLACKITY BLACK BLACK MCBLACK HOLE BLACKNESS. She’ll be so fucking black her touch could burn a bitch to death because she absorbs all light and heat. BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK.