Mixed origins…like olive oil and orange juice, but I am what my father is.
There are certain things that are hard to reconcile because I know my history.
Sometimes, I have some things to say that make people angry, but I am the product of an interracial family.
And it’s not the fact that people looked at us funny (they did)
Or the fact that some families didn’t let us play with their kids
It’s the collateral damage for me
The death of culture
The willful absence of understanding that my father carried a burden that my mom would never have to shoulder.
The ignorance because we are not the same.
The perpetual feeling of never being American because to feel American is to be white.
Oppression is not a competition and
We don’t have to be the same to be in solidarity with one another.
I don’t know what it’s like to be my father. And that’s okay.
The years have chipped away at the image of him that used to live in my mind, because even though there’s no excuse, I read between the lines, now.
We don’t get to assign a timeframe to other people’s healing.
It’s not okay to assume that trauma affects everybody the same way.
No one has to be worthy of idolatry to be a leader and
No one is worthy of idolatry.
I can see clearly now, and I know that love looks different when it’s shining on me from an unhealed heart.
Accountability matters and still, I understand that he’s doing the best he can. Even though my parents are shape-shifters. Even though I’m still mad.
I’m old enough to know it hurts to hold broken glass.
Two decades of life on tumble dry have made it exceedingly difficult for me to do anything but hold onto those who are broken: it’s always been broken people who have held onto me.
I see the pain.
I see the weight.
Healing cannot occur in isolation and healing…hurts.
We should be careful with our words.