Some of us have a very childish attitude. You hear some Black people say, “I don’t look at color.” “I don’t see the world in color.” A person victimized in terms of their color and they don’t see it. And it’s such a foolish, illogical statement. It’s sort of like a child that closes it’s eyes, and because it doesn’t see believes it’s not seen. And so we often think because we don’t see color, the world doesn’t see us as colored. And because we don’t see ourselves as Black, the world is not going to look upon us as Black. Foolish, stupid kind of thinking.
And so they have some people who think then, if they don’t see themselves as African, or they don’t see themselves as Black, they’re not going to be treated as Black, but that very case itself illustrates that problem, doesn’t it? It’s like some people who think they get degrees they’re going to be protected. You know that kid that got killed the other day in the park? And a lot of people were alarmed, “Oh, he went to a Black private school and he got a full scholarship,” as if that would had stopped the bullet. And so those of you who get these degrees, when these people start attacking you, do you think they’re going to stop and ask you, “Where did you get your degree from?” “DMCC, let me off!” No, no. They’re going to see your Black skin and they’re going to lay it on you the way they lay it on anybody else. As a matter of fact, if the system works right, it’s going to be the educated ones that get it first.
Dr. Amos N. Wilson (via disciplesofmalcolm)
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.
Things I need to remind myself (via unpoeticheartbreak)