Letter to the White Man

Given the state of the universe, is it a wonder that my own life is nothing short of silent chaos? I’m supposed to shuffle to the beat of my own music, yet I have no real rhythm. I try to move like a Thelonious Monk piano solo, intent on transcending the chords, but I fail miserably at picking the right keys. I’ve come to the conclusion that such is life as a human being on Earth. But, does anyone actually ever listen to the music I’m attempting to create? Does my beat compel you to pay attention?

It is 2017, the year of the "Make America Great Again" bullshittery. I am an American, living in a land run by ethical monsters posing as thoughtful politicians, judged based on the varying degrees of otherness which are heaped upon me by society- I am gay, I am Latino, and I am an atheist. If had been born with a vagina or come to the realization that I was a trans woman, it would have been quite the quadfecta of labels I would be saddled with. Luckily, I am a cis male, so I have one safety net to cling to in the downward spiral of my societal evaluation. Yet, that means very little in the grand scheme of reality- I am still a godless, brown queer, regardless of the supposed power of the uncut cock I was born with. To the average old, cis, straight, white conservative man, I’m still a walking billboard, full of labels, completely other to him, a voice he does not regard with respect, nor one worthy of his attention. My otherness has no relevance to his own existence. So, he shuts me out and I become an activist to the silence. This is the reality that all people of color, the LGBTQ community, and women are made to feel in America today. Chaos reigns, but do any white male ears hear us? I wonder.

I could argue until I’m blue in the face about the authenticity of the perspective we people of color, LGBTQ, and atheists bring to the table of social justice issues, but it would be all for naught. You wouldn’t understand, gringos. Not until you look under my nose and above my chin to see the moving lips, forming words that you have pretended to not hear for many years. You call us minorities, but that description does not diminish the veracity and enormity of our intentions. We fight for a slice of that same shit you and your fellow white flies keep snacking on. Stop beating us, stop degrading us, stop the systematic destruction of our pride, look to us as equals and we will do our best to give you that ultimate of rewards- the benefit of the doubt.

This has been weighing on my mind quite a bit. A letter to the lighter, more testosterone-filled half of our country might seem a bit heavy-handed to some, I admit. But it is this emotional state at which my principles have arrived, due to the recent flux of garbage opinions and gaslighting brought forth by the rich, old, white men who plague our modern political landscape. Small voices can no longer afford to be drowned out by misinformed, loud-mouthed behemoths, under the direction of mental dwarves such as Donald Trump. In this country, we’ve been listening to the beat of the discordant music created by the white man for centuries. Now, it is time for them to sit down and listen to the wonderful one we- black, brown, Asian, gay, bisexual, trans, atheist and others- have all been playing since time immemorial. It has been shushed long enough. If you fail to listen, there will be too much noise and chaos will continue to reign for generations to come. When it comes time that a revolution is just around the corner from your gated communities, do not place the hand of blame upon our shoulders, white man. Blame yourselves for masking your ignorance with the supposed virtue of being tone-deaf.

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