“We are all one race” Erases Struggle and I’m Sick of Hearing It.

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«Unknown source. My Google Fu has failed me»

Not exactly a rant… Just tired.  Work with me here.

If you can honestly believe in a “We Are One Race” argument, you’re touched by the hand of privilege. (This is also a classic version of the “I don’t see color” argument that Black America is getting tired of hearing, but that’s another rant.)

I cannot. I am not. It is exhausting to argue with the people who really and truly believe this, because when there is no way to offer the perspective—despite trying—all you get is frustration.

If you argue that racial dividers are manmade and only really tribal markers made to divide us, I’ll agree with you—and I will remind you that one half of my family’s “tribe” was yanked from its home continent to be used as slaves and had its culture beaten out of it, while the other half has been nigh exterminated, both by the “division/tribe” called “White Man.” “We are all one race” in response to someone bringing up injustice only serves to silence. And if you haven’t noticed, people are very tired of having people use the privilege of being a step up in the form of a boot on the neck.

Yes, this is on my mind a lot. It’s a thing that I have in the back of my mind most days. Every time I get a “You don’t sound [this word is always in a stage whisper] Black.” When a new person gets promoted over me. When I get passed on a hire because “I don’t fit the aesthetic” and I meet the new hire, with perfect alabaster complexion.

In today’s world, the way it works, “We are all one race” only applies practically in a gaming group or a video game. It does not advance discussion of the problems that exist. It pushes them under the rug. I see where people are trying to get at with it, but it will never, ever work. Not in the world we live in.

It simply is not that simple.

100 Points to Rickman for lives forever touched

Where I was: On the train, trying to get a busybody out of my ears. It changed to trying to prove this was a hoax pretty fast—but, the source? NPR. Pretty reliable.

The plan was to entertain myself with the newsfeed during the commute. Instead I found out that we have lost Alan Rickman to—excuse me while I curse the sky—cancer.

I was introduced to his work through the irreverent Dogma, and seeing him in serious roles (MR. Potter…”) was something of an adjustment. The man’s range was incredible, from the almost despotic to serious that bordered on silly.

And now he’s gone.

I’ll say it again:

Fuck cancer.

A Day Late, A Buddha of Suburbia Short: Farewell, Mr. Bowie

Where I was: Sitting at an improvised chair revising a chapter. It was 1:30 in the morning, prefaced with a text message of simplest nature: “Are you up?”


Nothing remains
We could run
when the rain slows
(–from Sunday)

On his birthday, David Bowie put out an absoultely smashingly excellent album, titled unpronounceably with a graphic but translateable as Blackstar. He celebrated his sixty-ninth birthday in festive fashion, we heard. I excitedly planned on getting that album in hard copy—struggle season be damned.
That was on Friday.

 

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New Year, Same Old…

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January 6, 2016 Wednesday 1:54 PM

44°F

 

A New Year.

I’m getting ready to start things over this year. In a way, though, nothing has changed from last year. I’m still sick, and I’m still trying to figure out exactly what is going on. Several challenges that I took on went uncompleted (I’m looking at you, 100 Things list).

Things did come up, though.

Somewhere around the end of December of ’14, my guts started acting up. It’s been months of tests, scans, more tests, more scans, cameras on tubes shoved in places where tney should never be allowed to go, and now I’m going to have to deal with an ultrasound probe being shoved down my throat in a month, because we’ve gone from thinking it was my stomach (which did have a problem, the lining in my stomach was apparently so far gone they were surprised that it was functional at all), to thinking that it as a kidney, to now thinking that it is my liver.

It’s resulted in spending a year of learning how to eat again. Things that used to not be an issue are now things that I either canno eat at all, or have to limit greatly. And that was if I could eat at all. In the span of about two months, without trying to, I lost about forty pounds.

And the only thing that I could do until they treated the “stomach with no lining” was drink mildly flavored seltzer and drink high protein, lactose free milk.

It has made things incredibly difficult to manage.

A midyear breakup didn’t make things any easier, even if it was me who cut things off. I knew things had to be cut off, what had to be done. The stress was making me as sick as my actual illness. The thing is, knowing things like this don’t make it any easier.

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It’s a new year now, with vastly lowered expectations, no resolutions, and only one real imperative: finish things that I start and survive. A rather lofty task when I’m looking at even more scans, three particularly scary potential diagnoses are on the table and we’re trying to rule them out with the scans, and the spectre of a betrayal so deep rooted that I never thought it could happen.

Looking back at all those things isn’t going to serve me, though.

I’m taking a broom to that old path, and dusting my old footprints away so I can never retrace those steps.

It’s forward from now on.

“All Lives Matter?” Shootings. Protests. Noise. Silence. But “All Lives Matter.” I guess some more than most.

I’ve had it up to here with “All Lives Matter.”

The shootings recently have me completely jaded. Not because they don’t matter—they do.

But because they’re everywhere. All the time. Most recently, the domestic terror incident at the Planned Parenthood in Colorado. The shooter was taken alive. Three dead.

And the first thing that I could think of at the resolution of the situation was: the suspect cannot have been anything but a white man.

Because, in situations like this, that is the only way the suspect ever gets out of these alive.

Let me back things up a a bit.

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Of Mismanaged Apartment Complexes and Men

The telltale scent of gasoline, syrup, and carrion meat is all I needed to tell me that for the final few weeks of not having an actual mattress, I’d been lucky: the bedbugs are in the bedding. I’m quite glad I’d taken the paranoid option and bagged every piece of linen that I had used as a temporary bedroll mattress assembly at this point—I didn’t even need to see the place where a dead one had dislodged its desiccated corpse.

What I’d forgotten about was that this is weeks of signal chemical, and anything live was about to come running.

Cue my shriek when an exceptionally fat, well-fed little pestilence bringer shot up the side of my bed frame and made a beeline for me.

The horror.

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