Little White Lies

Ryan Albritton
Jul 25, 2017 · 3 min read

Creativity is exhausting if it’s not for the self
but I was taught to unlearn my-self
when I was younger.
Messages beamed
from every direction,
into my prison cell,
as big as this nation.
A man’s leash is relative to the lightness
of his complexion.
I didn’t choose my lightness,
my Whiteness,
chose me.
Drinking shots of Jameson
in high school,
ironically celebrating my Irishness.
When did they become White?
When did I?
I don’t want it,
I never chose it.
I want to be me,
not this misplaced,
false,
identity,
improperly placed on me
by virtue of my suburban birth.
Not this identity that has me worth more
than any other color's worth.
Not this identity that has me feeling worth
less, more of the time than not.
Not this identity that has me understanding
worth
in dollars rather than in sense.
I’m incensed that this identity has my
senses numbed to the reality
of my being, has my
connection to other beings severed,
based on my ability to generate wealth,
for others,
my worth is relative to my ability
to generate wealth for others.
Well, there I go,
I’ve removed myself from the wheel
of wealth generation,
and now the older generations
see me as worth, less, more
of the time than not.

It’s up to me to redefine my wealth.
I’ve been assigned this identity
by virtue of my birth,
my Whiteness comes with an
asset pool by birth
but my deficit
is in soul
and in self.
I have an abundance of wealth that
matters not
to who I truly am.
I’m drowning in this asset pool
of my White wealth.
My health is compromised, and I
am dying inside.
My negativity is a result of the blindness I
see swimming all around me.
I see real humans drowning
in this pool all around me.
Our life jackets have become
strait jackets and our assets,
anchors,
pulling us down,
down, down.
This identity would have
me fighting and climbing,
on everyone drowning
around me.
We’ve lost our ability to see
the value in each others’
humanity.
This identity, this
white hood
over our humanity,
keeps us in the pool,
keeps us drowning and
pushing each other
ever farther,
down,
down, down.
Our anchors grow heavier
as we try to climb to the top.
If only I could get to the top,
then I could surely get out,
out of this pool,
out of this prison.
But to climb would mean pushing down,
another.
Who then becomes dead weight
on my anchor,
pulling me down, down,
down,
Until we realize that these hoods and
jackets were put here to blind us
and make us
crazy,
and keep us tethered to the anchors
of our gas-lighted assets.
This isn’t who we are,
we’re worth more than
our anchors,
anchors worth, less,
than our souls,
trampled,
at the very bottom,
drowning and forgotten.

I gave up on the obligation
and set my mind free
for pure
imagination.
Through these words
I am imagining
a self that I was taught was
worth, less than my
Whiteness.
My lightness is what determined
my rightness.
Righteous.
Now I know it’s all wrong,
and I’m diving down to the
bottom.
My soul is down there on the
bottom,
somewhere drowning.
My soul is worth more to me
than this life is.
This White lie that I was told
my life is.
I’m diving down to save my soul
from drowning,
I’m diving down,
but it may be too late.
I’m diving down,
but we are all,
still drowning.

Ryan Albritton

Written by

Writing my way out one day at a time. Stories about food, rants about culture, Anti-Racism, some poetry too.

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade