Is Racism Real

Bobby D'Angelo
Nov 1 · 4 min read

Let me start off by saying, yes. Very much yes. Got you dickheads to click on the link though. Today I will be discussing

Z. I’m

This morning I found myself strolling to my University’s health office preparing a plethora of lies about how I haven’t gone to classes this week because of vigorous diarrhea, when in reality I was hungover watching a loving relationship between two step-siblings as burger grease dripped down one of 6 tee shirts in my rotation. I was in the mood to jam to some middle school throwbacks when it hit me: until approximately my 12th birthday all I wanted to do was be as close to a person of African descent as possible.

****Of course, this was before really digging into the monstrosities people of my skin color have committed to black people between reruns of Friends. ****

For me, this urge to escape my mom’s toyota highlander and trade it in for a ride in a Coop began at age 8. As an oblivious third grader, a friend of mine, Jake, had convinced me that Black women breastfed chocolate milk. How preposterous?! How could racism exist when my moms tits have 2% while Corey from Corey in the house was sucking on trumoo. How could malnourishment in Africa even occur? I genuine believed this for about six months before the first of many awkward conversations with my Mom about the female body. Then we hit middle school and everything changed. In order to have any social success you had one option: you needed to become the next Kyle Korver. Shot after shot. The sound of my Basketball hoop being moved to 8 feet is imprinted in my brain. I climbed my way to the starting point guard on our towns B-team. A team that would go on to lose every game of that season. However, in a game I think about during sex to achieve orgasm, I scored 4 out of our teams 6 points versus the local Jewish Community Center. In that moment, I was more than the kid who had a lingering boner during social studies, I was a fucking rockstar. This path continued as for some reason at my middle school wearing basketball shorts in the winter proved how hard you were. Every day, I would go outside freezing my ass off wearing nothing but Nike shorts and my basketball warm up long sleeve.

This was the east coast way of trying to be black. The west coast way was FAAAAAR more oblivious.

I don’t foster anything more than a mild hatred for white people who try their hardest to escape the cruel reality of their race, being that I too was once an ignorant fool. A nightmare that generally provides us better education, privileges pertaining to employment, the ability to talk freely to police, among other horrific symptoms of being white. At some point I traded in the Kobe’s for Kackies and started dressing like a nerd and ditching the word “wet.” I’ll end this personal blog with a series of photos of white children immersed in Urban Culture despite their love for the republican party and mispronouncing Target on purpose.