|
Thursday, May. 16, 2002 / 7:31 p.m. ~Back To the Fields, Whitey!~ I don't allow serious grooming to occur on my lap. If you're going to be cleaning your entire body, if you have to raise a hind leg to reach even further, well, you've gone too far, you can do that on the floor, thank you and goodnight. Why is this my third entry of the day? Why not? You have a problem? Oh, we all know how I feel about this diary, don't we? I love it, I hate it, read it, don't read it, don't like it?, don't read it, like it?, tell me, stroke me, feed me, read it all, don't stop at one page. Someone new came along and read close to 20 pages. Stumbled in and stayed. I love that. Usually. It fills me with many feelings, quite simultaneously. Wonder. Appeasement. Is that what I mean to say? Flattery, surely. More wonder. I want to say that on C-SPAN there is backstepping. Goosestepping. Sidestepping. Spinning. Doctors. Spinning. Do you believe one word from any of their mouths? Is there one you can trust, you can believe? And why are you so naive? OIL. Power. Penis Envy. Need I say more? Is there more? And white is right. You don't think they think that? And I, raised to see no colors, I am the sufferer now. Drag me behind a truck, you know you want to. Would you like to hang me from a noose you make yourself, in that huge old oak tree in your yard? Why not just tie me to a stake? Lay me on the ground, hold me there, each of you place stones upon my body, prostrate before you. Go ahead. You think I'm overreacting, don't you? Do you think you're joking when you exclude me and tell me I'm white? Do you not think I know what color I am? Do you not think I am sick of being told what I can and cannot say, that I must pay for the sins of my own people? Did I fucking ask to be here, and to be with you? We are intimate. We share. Too much, far too much, and how is it I forget? Continously forgetting. What is it that makes me the Queen of Forgiveness? What is it that makes me obscenely generous? Do I not take care of you? Do I not ask how you are, offer you herbs and knowledge, do I not give up my own pride to befriend you? And you need to remind me not to seek definitions of words, not to be smart, you want me to be stupid for you? This is English. I'm writing it now. You want to know a meaning of one of these words? It's in a little or very big book called a Dictionary. Most words are there. In an Unabridged they are all there. You're missing one or two? Try my two volumes(out of 3) of the Historical Dictionary of American Slang. You want Ebonics? I'm sure there's a Dictionary for that too. But "plait" is an old word. It means a braid. A braid is a plait. They are one and the same. Plait is older, less often used. A cornrow is a very tight braid, braided, plaited close to the scalp, painfully close, right on the scalp, hair pulled tightly, painfully, and does it resemble a row of corn? Did the African slaves work in corn fields as well as cotton? Were they not subjugated? Forced into submission? Why didn't they revolt? Oh, they did? Yes. Underground railroad? Yes, heard of it. Heroes amongst them? Yes. Know what? I wasn't fucking born. I am me. Do you hear? ME! I am not whitey. You know me. I am too smart for you. I am beyond you and you know it. I was cocky all day, I knew too much. I was aghast and agog when I spoke to the man who could not subtract 3 from 5. "This is the 5th month, you were hired three months ago, when would that have been? What month was that?"...... "April?" Were you offended that I was appalled? Appalled? Aghast? Agog? Was Penelope offended when I said, "Plait is Braid"? They are one and the same. Did you need to pretend I was the odd woman out when I opened the dictionary to prove it to you? Do you envy me my mind? You do, don't you? And to tell me I don't know the black people's meaning. What the fuck is that? Plait is plait. Plait is not zebra striped. It hasn't lost its meaning. And I know who fucking Alicia Keyes is and she is less black than you, she is nearly white and sure she has tight braids, so fucking what? Black people. You don't even want to know what I think at this point. You wouldn't even believe how I came into this, what I was taught, that my mom's best friend was black, it wouldn't matter to you, would it, not now. When I get uppity and cocky and superior and you know I am, you long to bring me down a notch, remind me I am the minority and you can turn it all around. Black people. Black people don't have a dream. They don't want to get along, they want payback. They don't want the new generation to move beyond all that's come before, they want to live in the past, they hate whites more than whites hate them. And why so much hate? Things were moving along so swimmingly. I shared far too much. You were my new best friend, all over again, everything you've done to me, all the betrayal was gone, we were good, then you said this. ? My response ? Shall I tell you? "I MAY BE WHITE BUT I'M NOT STUPID!". Many startled "Ooooooooos!" after that one. Anger. Intense. Headphones on. Journal pulled from bag, write, write, write, tune you out, every sentence begins with "Miss Penelope, what do you think of ....?", because you won't even include me now. It's not that you feel bad. You know I suddenly despise you. You tried to take me down, you wanted to put me back in my place. Why not pick up a whip, you know you want to. Why not start calling me, "Boy"? You know you want to. You are actually making fun of someone who knows how to find the answers to the easiest of questions, the one who knows. Which cheek do I turn now? How many more do I have? I love when everyone sits around saying, "What is ___?" and I pull out the dictionary because that's where the answer is. They could never do that. Idiots. Ignorant. Stupid. Meek. Shall they inherit this Earth? They'd spoil it, ruin it. In all of this, don't you know the thing which riles me most is that I could NEVER do this to you? Picture it: An all white office. One black woman. We're talking perms, color, extensions, you chime in, tell us that extensions are for pussies, why not use your own hair? And we tell you to go pick cotton and get some cornrows. You'd be at the fucking EEOC getting us all fired in a heartbeat. This was a good day, too, a high energy day. I'm going to go drink now. Cost of the War in Iraq
(JavaScript Error)
Recent Entries: It Was 40 Years Ago Today - 9:44 a.m. , Friday, Oct. 12, 2012 Dead Black Cat - 9:07 a.m. , Wednesday, Jan. 25, 2012 As Seen From Outer Space - 1:07 a.m. , Saturday, Dec. 05, 2009 I Survived to Tell the Tale - 7:29 a.m. , Friday, Sept. 18, 2009 Reading My Life - 12:55 p.m. , Saturday, Sept. 12, 2009 
  |