DARK MATTER GEN
Published in

DARK MATTER GEN

“Why Do Black People Hate Trump”

What happens when modern dating and personal politics cross paths?

A few weeks ago, I found myself walking away from the train station at Bronx Park East, through a maze of opportunity for a night gone wrong, towards the address of a man who I would come to see was not worth the effort I made for him. With only street lights to guide me, I could have easily become yet another hapless person of color, in the right place at the wrong time. The things we do, with half a mind, for affection.

Why You’ll Only Ever Know As Much As You Need To

Having met him before, I felt safe in his company. I found myself shielded by the ignorance that comes with understanding. We are blinded by the things we know, operating in the dark of that which people do not choose not to show us. Had it not been for the news clip and had it not been for my remarks on the latter, I would have gone to sleep happily that night. I would have bathed in a sweet sense of self-neglect, happy to be unalone. Alas, I would have basked in a healthy dose of derivative moral depreciation.

Instead, I found myself faced with what seemed to me to be an obvious question, absurd even. I found myself debating into the early hours, the reality of my situation. I found myself speechless, for how can someone who is threatened by the same rhetoric that I am, fall for its propaganda?

That night I learned there is no easy way to ignore obvious problems, when the very thing that haunts you stares you in the face, smiles at you, and undermines your anger. When he teases you with the threats you face from men every damned day. When he paints himself as a victim, and erases your efforts at self defense.

I wonder how people can boast an ability to embrace those who support hate. Arguably, there is a point at which the defense of a difference in opinion becomes a deluded attack.

Where Do You Go And When Does This Leave You?

Guilt. Numbness. When shadows are let to light, a glow is cast on the past, which no longer looks as it did in the darkness. It is fascinating how quickly intimacy can churn when left to the wrong devices. How do you feel after that sort of emotional invasion? Like the devil himself crept under your skin and all he had to do was whisper a few sweet nothings before you let him in. Not even a few, not even sweet, practically nothing.

The irony of it all, is staying. Staying to sleep and to be safe, because it’s better to lay with someone who supports ideals that aim to break you, than it is to leave — exiting one silent hell to enter another, where a woman alone is the worst thing to be.

What Is Left When There Is No More Hate To Give

He asked me this question, among many others: Why do black people hate Trump? I can’t speak for everyone, when I can barely speak for myself. I can say this. When I think of Trump, I think of the standards our society has set for acceptance.

I think of the arbitrary modes of being that entirely change your experience on this earth. I think of the fact that things such as melanin rich skin, gender identity, and representation, all uncontrollable in the pursuit of an authentic life, can incite such intensity in strangers who know nothing of the content of the other’s mind. Strangers who, without insight, are willing to attack based on their perception of others’ appearances.

I think of the anxiety I feel every day as a female presenting person, and the sadness I feel for the generations of fear that women have survived. I think of how much more complex it must become when your true representation strays from that which was assumed, imposed, or assigned at birth. How difficult is it to weigh internal conflict with external crisis, and then some?

I think of the numbers, statistically representing mental health issues in these minority groups. The fact that you may feel unsafe in your own head, and beyond that, also have to worry about a safe environment.

How Time Changes The Tell-Tale Tune

I remember throwing an election party, with half of a term paper, worth almost half of my grade, left to write. Staying up late regardless of my displeasure with politics. Cleaning up while we waited for the results of what was not meant to be a close race. Writing in the dark and willing myself not to check the outcome until I finished one last sentence, until I secured my final grade. Crying myself to sleep because I could only anticipate what would come of this conclusion.

Waking up to my suitemate’s superficial empathy as she comforted me and cursed Muslims in the same breath. Entertaining the flawed logic of a roommate who consistently sought silver linings. Failing to acknowledge the exhaustion of resuming life as usual the next day. Embracing a gradual indifference that would comfort me in the years following this change.

Ergo, I can’t say that I hate Trump because I don’t have the energy to hate a willfully ignorant man. I am disgusted by him, and I feel disgrace for unwittingly associating with those who support him. I feel disappointed in myself for having spent time around so many people who ridicule the disturbance provoked by him.

Who Is Left For The Life That I Lead Now?

I lead a life lived in pockets of dark matter, hidden and protected by an ignorance that at the very least keeps me safe from myself. How can I trust someone who finds it childish for me to sustain this means of survival? How can I be vulnerable with a person who undermines my intellect, by assuming I can be placated into supporting this political mess?

“Why do black people hate trump?” Beyond a hope for provocation, I don’t know why I was asked this question.

Instead, I ask myself why it took me so long, after the fact, to expel the weight of this demon from my being.

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