Member-only story
This Is Us
We Can’t Be Friends if You Ignore My Blackness
You don’t get to disrespect me and still keep me
We’re not friends.
There. I said it.
You and I are not friends anymore, and in the deepest parts of me, I wonder if we ever were.
Seriously. I question the things between us — the energy, history, past.
I thought I could tell you everything. All my sins and all my hopes. But there was always a piece of me that was out of reach for you — because you would not reach for it. You would not stand up, extend your hand, and try to grab this part of me that was always so heavy to hold.
The first time I talked with you about race, it was in the context of dating. We went to a mostly white school, and there I was, watching a sea of Beckys use the currency of their whiteness to steadily earn their ring before spring. There I was, consistently alone. You offered platitudes about God and his timing and him not giving us anything we can’t bear. If there was a spiritual explanation (usually one with the subtext of me not being enough), you found it and offered it as if it were a balm for my wounds. It was salt every time.
I tried to explain it to you. Sure, there may be a God with timing, but also, I am a…
