Black Girl: As Is

Writer. Creator. Shapeshifter.

IV.

I was at the gym tonight and a couple came in.  I was devastated.  I could no longer scream sang and do my rap hands.  You know rap hands.  They can be guns or birds or swerve on dem hoes. Sometimes they just point or chop the air. Rap Hands.  Anyway, it was the worst.  I'm typically the type of girl who doesn't care who's around.  If there's a brass horn or some bass, Imma get it.  But there's something about being surrounded by this type of whiteness.  The type that stares at you but doesn't return your smile.  The type that expects you to hold the door and step aside and lower your eyes. The type of whiteness that tosses you to the ground and exposes you to open mouths with chicken and grits spilling out.  The type of whiteness that threatens to break your arm.  But also, that Kim Zolciak whiteness. The kind that wants to cling and sap you of your resources and your energy and your love.  The kind that wants to leave you dry and then run through town screaming and crying that they choked on your nectar.  The kind that sits in court and recites the script and cries decades later about how they're lives weren't everything they'd hoped.  The kind that monetizes your essence and holds it just outside your reach.

Black folks need to stay they asses out of Waffle House. They always been racist. They waitresses were racist. I remember. Scarface got shot at Waffle House. We ain’t welcome.
— The Lady

I've never set foot in a Waffle House.  I just hate spending money on shit I know I can cook better.  Perhaps I have an inner loathing. Maybe The Lady's vehement hatred of it imprinted on me.    If I didn't rebuke it before, I certainly do now.  Completely unsurprising-yet infuriating- cop fuckery aside, what kind of bullshit policy charges people for the utensils necessary to eat the meal they just PAID for?  The environment, you say?  Try again.  This is fucking Waffle House.  Waste costs?  Sure.  Why not ask the customer like decent companies?  I know they aren't alone in this policy, but if you're a company who happens to be reading some random black chicks ramblings, stop that shit.  Stop It.  Treat people like the human beings that they are. Provide a muthafukkin service.  Have some pride in your shit.

In other news, White folks, y'all wear me out.  I love you.  Genuinely.  I love humans. We're fascinating. But I need y'all to get yo shit together.  Stop making excuses for bullshit. Stop that "Well if you'd....Not all...but we don't know...I can't believe" bull fucking shit. You sound lazy and stupid and racist.  Ya do.  Stop getting in your feelings when we call you on your shit. This shit is BIGGER than you.  I don't give a damn about your feelings.  I don't.  I give a damn about lives.  Valuable lives. These souls you might see as colorful and nurturing and hilarious are also pieces of a larger puzzle.    Don't let the rags and the grills and black lips fool you.  They are made in God's image. They are DIVINE.  They owe you no explanations for their anger.  They owe you no explanations for their volume or their language.  They owe you no piece of their joy. They owe you nothing.  And if we're being really real?  You probably owe them some residuals for your use of lit or fuccboi or I woke up like this.  You probably remember that time Girlfriend or Bye Felicia or Brotha invaded your mind and flew out of your mouth before you could grab it.  Next time you wanna interrupt when someone speaks their truth, remember that time, hold on to it  and remember that shutting up is free99.  

 

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