Read My Stuff

The Brown Skinned Racist

I’ve never been more consciously aware of the color of my skin than I am right now. I’ve never been more in awe, more afraid, more grateful for the dosage of melanin that belongs to me. Yet, for all my cherishing, I’m still trying to figure it out.

 

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What’s Left to Do?

We are a people always seeking, always moving, always striving for more: it is the American way. In our culture, the most dishonorable people are the people who don’t work toward anything and don’t want toward anything. Having a job is respectable, certainly, but it’s the striving that makes you remarkable. Striving is our barometer for praise, for respect, for worthiness. A person who’s not at least trying to be better is really just not worth the space they occupy. If you’re not trying to move upward, whether that be in corporate America or on the stairway to Heaven, you are not a person worthy of grace, of rest, nor even sometimes of justice. We may not articulate it this way, but our resentment of these types of people classify them as the breed of humans unworthy to till soil in the land of opportunity.

 

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Sin Like Coffee Cups

I have this really terrible habit. A habit that involves my car and days-old coffee and a willpower so weak that nine out of ten coffee cups get left behind. A habit whose repercussions aren’t so awful when you consider the fact that most days my car smells like classic vanilla Coffee Mate, but it’s a habit I’m ashamed to call mine. Because where do those nine cups go if not shoulder to shoulder inside the automatic dishwasher, you ask? In the trunk. They go in the trunk of my car.

 

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Why We Die

Death is quite the undertaking. To die when one wants desperately to go on living is the most gruesome kind of labor any of us will ever know. It’s painful and bloody and empties our pockets of the fortune we think is ours. But we must do it. Each of us must come bearing our dreams and our crosses to silence ourselves once and for all. And when the morning comes, and we find ourselves back at the beginning, we must do it all again. This is what love requires of us.

 

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In The Margins

Inside every relationship, there’s a gap. A margin of space where people didn’t quite meet our expectations or failed us with miles to spare. We grow things here. These spaces are like our own personal little gardens of hatred, doubt, or in the rare and most beautiful cases, love. The success and failure of each and every one of our relationships hinge entirely on this particular grove and what we leave in the margins.

 

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Why Valuing Myself Is Pointless

You don’t have to wait any long stretch of time for me to find my way back to guilty. Though I am absolved of my sins–and I cling to, and believe that with all my heart–there’s something inside of me that thirsts for the darkness. I make space for it, create plans around it, then get myself alone with it and do things Christian conservatives the world over would riot about. I’m not proud of it, but when that boy comes calling for me desire only leaves room for “yes”. I can’t say no even when I want to.

 

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