I cry

So I''m crying again on my one day off in front of a computer.

I wanted to write about BFP, I wanted to write about Sudy, I wanted to write something brave and brillant and Amazonian in defense of my Sylvia.

But instead I am choking back tears in front of a computer trying desperately not to alert my mother to how close I am to vomiting.


I am a 23 year old girl.

I write because I believe .

I believe that PEOPLE are more important than things, I write because I believe that PEOPLE and their lives are worth the hard work it takes to make them better .

I write because I believe that people need to be enmeshed and intertwined and understanding of each other, constantly and openly and work towards a world where that is not a dangerous thing.

But most of all I write because I know what it's like to be erased and lost and have that ability taken from you.

And I am trying so hard not to be melodramtic, and I am trying so hard to be adult and mature and pragmatic and conscious.

And not to take it personally that I have to be

and I can't I just can't .

So I cry.

I don't understand.

I don't understand that defending my friend and more importantly people's lives and the right to have truthful honest INVOLVED accounts of those lives is worth less than a book.

I truly don't understand how time and time again the use of the Master's house analogy always defaults to concerns about the house but not the people dying and being raped and being bled to have said house.

I don't understand how someone can claim freely to spend little to no thought on things they claim will guide/lead /revolutionize and

Why come I always end up with my knuckles rapped when I point out it is bad

I want to know why so many people will defend to the DEATH the right for women to make entitled privileged mistakes, to be spreaders of poisonous bile, to use the identities of other people as shields form critique

But treat the destruction of people s homes as a theoretical argument.

I write because I know what it’s like to have the ability to speak taken form you.

I know what it’s like to have someone stare you in your face and congratulate THEMSELVES on your EXISTENCE

Because he they “ work with kids like you” were and that’s their golden cookie point for heaven.
Because deigning to extend themselves to the likes of you is such makes them such remarkable people .

Because god for bid the move towards social justice ACTUALLY INVOLVE FUCKING WORK.
I want to understand because

I take time

With every word that comes out of my mouth

Because I know what it’s like to not be able to speak so you could eat.
Because I Know what its like to have to beg people so you could still have a family

I know what it’s like to have your words mean NOTHING

AND SOMEONE ELSE’S MEAN EVERYTHING

To whether you could LIVE OR DIE.

I want to understand what kind of life you live that your words get to be sacred and life changing and have no responsibility to any one.

I want to know what kind of world you live in when your identity is used as some talisman to ward of critics , to make them these large undifferentiated blocks

and you still are supposed to be trusted with people words these emblems of their lives
?

I have no idea what to say anymore.

That the problems of the dissrespect, intellectual dishonesty, perpetuation of racism, transphobia, and the sublimination of multiple voices, the utter disgusting secrecy is prided

over the weight and damage this carries.

Where people get thanked for admitting they found themselves to busy to engage and credit someone , but have plenty of time to lift phrases form their words whole sale.

That gets a thank you?

While they ignore the very person they are hurting to prove

I AM A GOOD PERSON.

That someone can "apologize to me" and ignore me

That someone can with a straight face position me as simply an addendum to understanding teh more important white woman concepts .

BEcause i never speak for my own life.

I want to know

But i don't and I can't

So I cry