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If I can still move, what I’m gon’ be still for?
My mom definitely says this all the time and she is 100% right!
My dad can be proud that he’s the first Black chief surgeon, but that doesn’t mean he’s proud to be Black.
A word
“I’m just saying it’s a little hard to change when you have a journal telling you who to be.”
Sometimes we mold this picture perfect idea of ourselves in our head but it doesn’t benefit us at all
I’m considering how toxic it might be, writing in stone who I am, and who I should be.
Love the self awareness
My skin crawls. I’m not used to being surrounded by people with my skin color. It makes me feel like they can see how other I am.
Personally relate to this moment and it is the most self conscious you will ever feel
I’m scared to call attention to myself, to be noticed for what I am, or, I guess, for what I’m not.
Social anxiety 1 us 0
unfair grading and harsher punishments and stuff like that. But I never really experienced any of it.
“Those were the challenges of their generation.”
“And it’s definitely still a threat for our generation, but not as much.”
“My parents never warned me about the fact that the way I talk and the way I act might lead people to call me white.”
“My mom taught me about stereotypes, but she never taught me about the dangers of being the exception to stereotypes.”
“Being the exception to Black stereotypes automatically means that ...
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watch, bracing myself for the second Mom realizes that Dad never apologized, and for Dad to realize that Mom never sympathized.
“I don’t think you should explain your discomfort by ascribing it to the type of person you are. Seems . . . limiting.”
Doesn’t seem fair to Black people that every time they hear it, they have to figure out whether or not they’re being insulted.”
There are enough closed doors and glass ceilings in the world. My comfort zone shouldn’t be one of them.
There’s something about having Black friends that makes you feel . . . whole.”
“Home is not a place. Home is in here.” She pats her hand over her heart. She says, “Don’t you fear, I’m right here.”
wasted so much time living in fear that I thought I was comfortable, but I was writhing in a cage that I didn’t know existed, making lists of all my worries with no intent to do anything about them.
She doesn’t understand that she can’t talk about Black people without talking about me too. She doesn’t understand that using the N-word in any context is never a joke. Not for me, it isn’t.
Maybe the only thing I need to remember is my name, who I love, and what I love about life. That’s all Hattie remembers. Maybe that’s all that matters.
I always thought that the second I was crazy enough to get rid of my journal, I would have proper coping methods in place, but after I lost it, I think I might have developed those.
My energy shifts to make room for yours.
“When you think of me, I want you to remember that I’m Black. It’s a huge part of my identity.”
want you to be able to celebrate our differences. I need you to be aware that our differences will get us different outcomes in life. And I need you to know that just because I don’t fit into your stereotypes, that doesn’t mean I’m any less Black.”
Like everything happened just so that I could end up here, free of lies and fear and guilt, with friends who understand and respect me, and a boy who isn’t perfect, but who’s patient and whose light shines over all my darkness. Like finally.
