Dig.

by A.S. King

You probably think I’m some cliché kid who hates her parents. I don’t. I have reasons I don’t like to spend time with them. For one thing, they hate gay people. And Jewish people. And black people. And Mexicans. And Muslims. My mom doesn’t even know a Muslim from a Sikh. She just talks about how great it is that their god makes them wear “turbans” so she can pick them out in a crowd. She thinks this is funny. Shocked? I bet you aren’t. All you gimme-gimme people have met someone like my parents. It’s not just a passing comment or a racist quip in the hallway. My whole house is wallpapered with hate. My dinner is made with hate. My Christmas gifts are bought with hate. I started doing my own wash when I was ten just so my clothes can feel clean when everything else feels dirty. It’s not like they burn crosses, no. And people still do that around here. But they wouldn’t go out of their way to put the fire out. I’ve never known what to do about it. I can’t argue with them because they don’t listen. I can’t reason with them because you can’t reason with people like that. I wish there was a healthy bacteria—like in acidophilus milk—I could put in their food that would change them.