“the thing you are most afraid to write. write that.”
― Nayyirah Waheed, advice to young writers
Last night I woke up at 4am thinking about it. The agony plaguing my mind… But I still feel unsure how to express it. Well, how to say it without dropping, losing everything I ever thought I needed socially. If that makes sense. Basically what I’m about to say, I must say with apologies to the kindergartener or whatever is still left of her within me. Which actually, I guess when I put it that way, can be viewed as a positive sign of growth… However difficult.
I’m sorry kindergarten me who wanted to turn her nappy braids and fluffy twists into one long, sleek, simple ponytail. Whose favorite name was Caroline. Who scratched her so-called best-friend Ginny (obviously a white girl; with pigtails), for some playground micro-aggression I’ve long since forgotten.
Sorry, but it’s time to grow up. Hard as it is. Left turn.
Not only do I way no longer want to be something I’m not — a white girl — I don’t want anything more from white girls, white feminists, white women, so-called “allies” not in the bodies of women of color, at all.
