Racist Racism is Racist

I am not the type of writer who rants about social injustice. I do not fight the denigration of basic moral codes and I do not work to eliminate complacency. I do not incite political action. I am simply not an activist.

I do not blame any person for the actions of their race, and I do not at all hate white people or even the WASP elite.

But fuck every single person who says that racism isn’t what minorities make it out to be.

I realize that extreme sensitivity toward each other must die if we ever hope to achieve peace, but do not be so condescending as to claim that privilege does not exist–that people are not significantly treated differently based on the color of their skin and the nature of their beliefs.

I am the first to point out that I have privileges that many others do not. I come from an extremely rich family. I am very, very fair. If I am not wearing a headscarf, I pass easily as just another white girl. Unlike my brother, I have the option of stepping out of my other-worldly celestial stereotype almost flawlessly.

But I do not. I wear my scarf like he wears his skin. Blacks, Arabs, Muslims, Hispanics, South Asians, and many others, we are marginalized groups, and we are judged so harshly when we point out someone’s actions as “racist.” We are too sensitive. We are looking for a fight. We just hate white people.

Nothing grinds my gears more than the constant claim that we are compulsively assuming that all acts of unkindness are acts of racism. Not everyone who does bad things is racist.

To this, I will concede. That is true. Not everyone who does bad things is racist, but please do not spout your bullshit bigoted holier-than-thou god-complex-induced spiel depicting this situation as a mass of angry people victimizing themselves.

If you have never been pulled over without cause, if you have never been searched multiple times at an airport because of your skin color or clothes, if you have never been afraid of a police officer, if you have never been watched in a convenience store, if you have never lost out on a job you deserved because of your name, you cannot begin to understand what it means to constantly try to discern a friend from a foe. Almost all the racists have two faces. Just ask Hamlet. They’ve been given a face and they make themselves another. I plot twist the meanings. It’s still there.

And for all the people in the back nodding indignantly as I write this, I have a criticism for you, too.

There is nothing more counterproductive, insulting and bigoted than trying to compare the severity of your consequential pain created by a racist society to others. It does not make you better, to be more marginalized. It does not make you more rightfully indignant, to believe that other people’s socially ignited upset is collateral damage in a system specifically geared to destroy your group above all else.

It does not make you cooler to be hurt the most.

And for all others, if you truly believe that there is no white privilege, no systematic adulation toward white men regardless of their icky mistakes, then consider this:

This entire country was built on the death and enslavement of those who already populated it, and the very people who caused and perpetuated this genocide have had their faces carved into a stolen land and are celebrated for their accomplishments rather than remembered for their selfish intentions. We have a real-life example of how we justify the means so long as we like the ends, as we still until this very day celebrate the voyage of a man who did nothing but murder and sicken a people whose only crime was to show kindness to a bloodthirsty criminal whose only mission was to help himself.

Let me sell you on Columbus Day, where the weekend never ends, there are no Miserable Mondays, and friendly all-inclusive neighborhood cook outs are hosted to mask the unpleasant underlying white guilt.

Batteries not included.

Dear White People: Labels, Labels, Labels

Watching controversial shows like Netflix Original ‘Dear White People’ has an extreme tendency to spark up a case of the fairly fluctuating fickle feels. One issue that has risen above the fold that I am inversely besotted to is the argument for and against “labels.”

Now, let’s get this straight: Subscribing to labels isn’t necessarily a juxtaposition to being independent and unique, and the opposite is also true. However, we can’t choose to refrain from being clad with specific labels if we don’t know we don’t understand which we would belong to if we did. If we are, we are simply following the newest trend of our society: It’s not cool to subscribe to anything but magazines.

Think Schrödinger’s Cat; The cat is in the box, but you have no idea if the cat is dead or alive unless you open the box. On a much, much smaller scale, we also cannot decide whether the labels really personify us until we actually explore them–i.e open the box.

So let’s talk labels. There are an ash ton of them floating around just south and north of the equator, but let’s simplify the list to our trending top three: sexuality, race, and gender.

Sexuality: an overarching umbrella. In its most basic family tree, you have your heterosexual, homosexual, and (perhaps arguably) asexual. But it gets complicated. You’ve got your Kinsey sixes, Kinsey threes, and just plain old Kinsey ones. You’ve got your zeros and you’ve got your fluids. Good luck counting them.

Next, race. You’ve got your classic black/white/hispanic hushed segregated system, but what happens when you’re biracial? Do you belong to two labels or have you created one of your own? Perceptions are everything.

Finally, there’s gender. You’ve got your cis, your trans, and your androgynous. The list goes on there too, but you belong to one of them, and you can’t escape that.

So, I would be an aromantic asexual Muslim Arab-American cisgender female.

These are labels that I cannot change.

And if we’re getting into the even more detailed form of my personal category, then I am an aromantic asexual epileptic diabetic Muslim Arab-American arguably marginally sociopathic cisgender female with an oppositional defiance issue and ADD.

That is a hell of a category, and those are a lot of labels. I carry each and every one of them, just like everyone else.

The only one I refuse to validate is “heteronormative.” Absolutely not.

Point is, believing that you do not subscribe to any epithets and are simply a unique, kindred spirit is nothing more than a delusion. You are branded by many individual labels. You are simply a compilation of them all.

Yes, you are you, and that is truer than true. Sure, there’s no one around, who’s you-er than you.

But that’s not what the cool kids say.

#DrSeuss

Why Weddings aren’t Weally Worth it

I don’t understand weddings.

Or to be more specific, I don’t understand the importance of weddings. People spend thousands of dollars on a few hours. Can you stop and think about all the other things in the world that you could use that money for that would be so much more enjoyable, more useful, than a party?

Weddings are just a manifestation of one’s personal hubris. The prettier the wedding, the better we feel about ourselves. People who attend have to “wow” themselves to sleep that night because they’d never been to so expensive a shindig. Otherwise, the union was unsuccessful.

Who cares what kind of food is served, or which designer made your dress, or what color uplighting Sir Disk Jockey used? Why does it matter if the center pieces aren’t perfectly crafted in an ostentatious formation that’ll make your bitter Aunt Ellie jail-house jealous?

The concept of a wedding being the “most important day of your life” is borderline insane. How is wearing an uncomfortable outfit for five hours and being stared at by tons of people you barely know or talk to special?

“You only get married once” is no longer a plausible argument. 50 percent of marriages in America end in divorce. You might think you’re a special snowflake and are irrevocably in love, but people change over time. The chances you aren’t going to make it are pretty high, and now you’re out all this money that you could have had as back up just in case life happens.

All because you just had to have the sexiest wedding south of nowhere.

Band or DJ? Chicken or beef? Vera Wang or off-the-rack discount Davy’s Bridal? White or ivory table cloths? Four cameras or five? Sacrifice one virgin or two?

Who gives a fuck?

Why not keep the money for a down payment on a house, or an awesome honeymoon, or a saving’s bond for a rainy day?

I just think it’s disgusting that we spend a fortune to make a huge production of something people do all the time. Getting married is not some huge achievement. It’s a dated process that doesn’t really accumulate much envy on your guests’ parts. Can you imagine the amount of people you could feed with that money? How many lives you could improve with just a fraction of how much you just spent on food for people who eat pretty well all on their own?

A wedding is just a party. Nothing more. There is no reason to make it rain diamonds just to show that you’re better than everyone else. It doesn’t make you look happier. It just proves how desperate you really are for attention.

Trust me. People are not going to remember your “special night” for very long. You will be filed away in the deepest corner of their minds, right at the very bottom of the “Irrelevant Memories” cabinet. Even you will never look at those pictures, again.

So let it go.

To Whom It May Concern

To Whom it May Concern:

I have written many a post about depression and anxiety; I have explained it, described it, and defended it extensively in cyber space and real life. It seems, however, that despite all of this people still are unable to recognize it when they see it. This isn’t about me. This is about all of those around me that are subjected to labels by people who don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about.

The girl who stays up all night and sleeps all day isn’t just lazy. The guy who’s always on a screen of some kind, be it a computer, video games, or any other gadget that prevents social interaction, isn’t just addicted to technology. The people who keep to themselves for the most part do not think they’re better than others. Often, it is the exact opposite, and nothing is more terrifying than seeking help.

The girl who’s up all night is anxious. She can’t sleep, because all of the things that she thinks are wrong with her are running around in circles in her head. She is analyzing everything that she has ever done and is torturing herself over all of it, because she is simply incapable of moving on. Her mole hills are mountains she can’t climb, and when the sun comes up and she can see more than darkness, her mind finally lets her sleep.

The boy who is always staring at a screen is terrified of socializing. Crowds make him nervous, people make him anxious, and the real world is far more intimidating than the virtual reality he has created.

The girl who keeps to herself has low self-esteem. She compares herself to others and seems to always fall short. She looks down on herself and wonders why she couldn’t be as talented, smart, or beautiful as the people around her. It is easier for her to be alone, than to find herself in a position where her thoughts turn into self-deprecating beliefs that stick with her for life.

Just getting closer to God isn’t going to fix it. Being told that nothing is wrong with their lives, isn’t going to fix it. Telling someone that things are going to be okay isn’t going to fix it. Inserting our opinions and getting angry when the other person doesn’t get better isn’t going to fix it.

Telling people that it’s all in their head isn’t going fix it, because it is all in their head.

That’s kind of the point.

Sincerely,
The Guy Who Can’t Stand Your Type

Pretentious Perpetuation of Problems Per Pop Culture

Before we begin, I would like to say that I am not writing this to promote or demote pop culture. How I feel about the dazed masses who revel in elements of entertainment and fashion solely due to their popularity is not the issue at hand, particularly since pop music is obviously solving deep-rooted social issues in America.

Remember when there were xenophobic ‘Muricans who hated Spanish? I guess ‘Despacito’ was the key to solving ethnicity-based hate and bigotry. Good on you, Justin. Who knew a reverse-oreo Ryan Seacrest would be the cure for racism?

Any-word, the real problem is the the bigotry of those who color themselves liberal and tolerant. It may be the latest fashion, but calling yourself a liberal does not actually make you a liberal.

Being a liberal isn’t just about equal rights. It isn’t just about wanting people to be allowed to love who they want. It isn’t just about believing people can practice whatever religion they want. It’s isn’t just about politics. It’s about not lording your likes and dislikes over people who happen to be hanging out on a different cumulus than you are.

And I know this might be a stretch folks, but hear me out.

You cannot call yourself a liberal if you talk about how stupid people who don’t like popular culture are; i.e Game of Thrones, Justin Beiber, Tay Tay, pop-rap stars. You cannot call yourself a liberal if you are telling people they don’t like something because they “haven’t given it a real chance.” You cannot call yourself a liberal if you’re calling people “pretentious hipsters” for not being part of your fandom.

And what’s worse, we as a society have become so undeniably brain-washed that we change how we feel about things as soon as the pop culture icons we idolize voice an opposing opinion.

For example, a great number of people hate country music, but if Taylor Swift somehow stumbles back over her own roots, what is the likelihood that they will stand by their attitude on a scale of Impossible to Absolutely Not? Country music lovers will no longer be dubbed hillbillies, Thomas Rhett will be the sexiest man on earth, and Folk music will be the new dead horse.

Sure, it is about keeping this lovely US of A the land of the free and the home of the brave, but our culture has dictated that we cannot be free if we are not brave, and alienating each other because we fundamentally disagree on things that dont really matter is exactly what is tearing us apart.

This country isn’t in need of a Mexican standoff. It is big enough for the both of us. No one on either side should be preaching to the other to get them to change their minds.

If you’re going to do it, you might as well start a-knock knockin’ on people’s doors with pamphlets and scripted conversation starters. It’s the same thing; We just don’t like going outside, anymore.

The Idea Guy

I had to take a communication style test today, along with the other trainees and my boss. We sat in that room with that damn sheet of paper, answering questions that were just a tad bit intrusive. And I can’t say I didn’t struggle, because I knew that all of my honest answers would put me in a category I didn’t really want my boss to know I was in.

But I did it, anyway.

Because I’m stupid, and didn’t know we would have to share.

When we looked over the results, everyone in the room ended up in Communication Style 3, except me. I was in Style 4, and it wasn’t exactly a good place to be in, at that moment.

Style 3 is people-oriented. The listeners. The caretakers. The empathizers. Everything a therapist should be.

Style 4, however, is the Idea Guy. The abstract thinker. The artist. The writer. The challenger. I can’t say I’m shocked, but no one else? No one?

I am always the oddball. I am always in a category all on my own, swimming in a soul-sucking sea of solitude that’s really just dark as fuck. What good is it being an Idea Guy if nothing I come up with is worth being read?

All it means is that I’m playing for a losing team, because numbers outweigh strength.

Strength I don’t even have.

Yay for self-esteem.

Angry Empty Expressions of Anti-Adulatory Excitement

Today, my boss brought me into her office just to talk. Somewhere along the lines of the conversation, she said that, when I’m quiet, I have facial expressions that make me seem angry.

Insert floored dropped jaw image here.

I literally never, in my life, had anyone say that to me. If anything, I’m yelled at for making too many jokes and not being serious enough.

If my facial expressions seem angry, it could be because I have a short attention-span, and we sit and look at powerpoints for 3-4 hours at once. I can’t stay with you for that long. One hour in, and I’m gone until you send us packing.

Which is a pity, because I know that the presentations are excellent.

I’m not alone in that, but I probably am the only one who zones out completely for hours at a time, just thinking about the stories I want to get home and finish.

Because seriously, living in a fictional world beats the fuck out of the real one.

But maybe they do have a point. Not all the tales I think up in my head are pleasant. Most of them are pretty damn dreary. I’d need pharmaceutical help if I was smiling while I was dreaming up a scenario very reminiscent of a scene from Passion of the Christ.

Okay, not Passion of the Christ, but on a scale of one to terrifying, I’m probably swimming somewhere in the realm of a chainsaw massacre. Just not in Texas.

Connecticut. Yeah. In Connecticut.

The other problem she brought to my attention is that I tend to say things that make it seem like I’m lazy and unwilling to work.

I do say things of that nature, but it’s always in jest.

Connecticut doesn’t seem to tolerate jokes or humorous sarcasm. A piece of me died when I realized that, because humor is literally the only coping mechanism I have against depression and anxiety.

I don’t at all mind criticism, but this was so far out of left field. I don’t know how to fix something I didn’t know was broken.

Time to get to the chopper. This world ain’t big enough for all of us, hombre. I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse. Funny racist Arabic phrase. Everybody start Kung Fu Fighting. Lemme just cause two World Wars.

I have a right to bear arms.

‘Murica.

Princes, Paupers, and Players

I’m always being berated for what I look like. It isn’t necessarily my natural–or lack-there-of–beauty that gets me the good seats on the scenes of public hangings.

The way I dress, the way I act, the way I talk, is viewed as offensive. It does not match up with the structured norm, and is an embarrassment when displayed for others to see. And all too often, I go rogue, sometimes defeating even the lowest expectations of me and setting a new standard for the rock bottom of near sanity.

This isn’t a sob story. This is an explanation for a puzzled majority of some of the thoughts of my minority.

We don’t want to be the paupers who scramble to convince the world that they are princes, and we don’t want to be the princes who attempt to create an illusion of modesty when so often there is no higher hubris than their own. We are the players that do not make legitimized contenders. We observe. We find odd ways to make our marks in history, and interestingly enough, it is more often that one of us gains true recognition in a world that sees us as outlandish. It may sometimes be negative recognition, but recognition all the same.

Better to be a dark mark on a permanent record than a dull shade of gray, and I have never known anyone who marches to the beat of their own drum to step back in line for perfect harmony.

Unless they are afraid.

And unfortunately, that fear isn’t rare.

I wish I could change it, but I am not an activist. I am an ear and a pen, and that is all there is. There isn’t any more.

Madeline.

An Anti-Abortion Augury

I am not an activist. I do not rally for anything. I do not push my beliefs on others to control how they act. I do not care about what other people do, especially if I don’t play a part in the outcome. This is not a post about the rightness or wrongness of aborting what isn’t yet a child.

I now recognize that, that statement may convey my actual feelings on the subject, but I’ll move on.

I’m writing this because I simply don’t see why people get so heated about abortion. If you aren’t having the child, why do you care so much about what happens to it? I realize that this sounds insensitive and cruel, but the reality of the situation is, if you are not someone who was personally included in the seed-planting portion of this union, you don’t really have the right to dictate the results. You’re not the one who was throwing free throws and scored.

Some people see it as murder. I get it. Who has the right to take any life? Maybe no one.

I just don’t understand why men get so broken up about it. I mean, if you had a one-night stand, odds are you don’t really care about the person you just soiled with your surprisingly skilled swimmers. It was just companionship, and you were about to face a punishment you probably weren’t ready for.

Bonus points if you’re already dating someone else.

You want to make yourself unhappy just because you believe that keeping an unwanted child is “the right thing to do.” That doesn’t make sense. A woman just gave you an out. You can now walk away, childless and void of responsibility, and be with whoever you want.

I guess what I’m saying is, if she’s going the abortion route, run off and have your fairy tale life and stop trying to make everyone unhappy with your sad-sack beliefs.

I’m not saying abortion is good. I’m just saying that when you get a do-over, don’t be a little bitch about it. Not everyone gets that. Go and live your life the way you were going to live it before. Be happy with the shot you got, and don’t dwell. The kid is gone, now. You can’t get it back.

 

I clearly have no morals.

Empathetic Evisceration: For the Greater Good

I really have to call into question the whether there are levels of empathy. Can you be both empathetic and not empathic at the same time?

Allow me to give some context. I have a close friend who was recently dumped by her boyfriend of five months. I dislike this man for multiple, some would say very valid, reasons. So when I discovered that he had broken up with her, I felt somewhat…happy, elated, severely satisfied.

Basically, I was dancing with jazz hands in my head.

And I don’t feel like that makes me a bad friend. I think it makes me a good friend, that I was reveling in her pain.

Not her in pain. The cause of her pain.

And that brings me to my point: is it possible to be sincerely empathetic while also feeling satisfaction about the thing that created a person’s distress? Is that comparable to, let’s say, being happy that someone is sick because it kept them from doing something that would get them hurt?

Or are both of those things horrible and retroactively irrelevant because the “greater good” is an inconsiderate concept with the faintest taste of self-serving malice?

Is feeling no satisfaction in either side of a symbiotically complicated equation the only way to have an emotional reaction that isn’t morally bankrupt? Is lying about it to create a kind of pseudo-empathy to avoid out-kicking your coverage worse, or does honesty still go a long way, here?

Incidentally, I think honesty is very rarely the best policy, but that’s a whole other discussion.

Also, thinking about marriage at nineteen is insane.

I think I have the moral high ground, here.

I may not be very good at this friendship thing.