ARRvol34 master reduced - Flipbook - Page 22
James Baldwin tattooed on my forearm. My many racially-conflicting dualities still haven’t budged though. On the drive home from
the jailhouse after I was arrested for protesting police brutality
last year, I reclined the seat in my white moms blue Prius, shut my
eyes and blasted the Mumford and Sons latest album. I have strong
opinions about mass incarceration and the continued segregation
of public schools, and I also unironically enjoy camping, Trader Joe’s
runs and other “white as hell” activities. I will be the first to admit
that some of Taylor Swift’s albums do hold up, and I have also found
some rappers whose music I genuinely enjoy. I have grown to love
my brown skin and big hair, and I will also probably live in and/or
date someone from Portland in my lifetime.
I’ve learned that if I truly wanted to find my place in this world,
my only option would be to be myself and hope that the right people would follow. Some would be Black; some wouldn’t be. And that
does not determine what “level of Blackness” I have reached. There
are no levels; there is no test to pass or ribbon to win. All there really is is this short, messy, mostly humiliating but also joyful little life,
with nothing to prove to anybody. Except for Jesi Tinker-Rein, who,
come hell or highwater I will make regret leaving me for that skinny
Skechers-wearing bitch.
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