Excuses, escapes, et cetera

A nothing that may become something

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He opened his Notes app to the entry titled “Reasons” and ran through his options. He kept the list organized and regularly updated. He would reorder them based on how recently he used them, the time of year, etc. He also color-coded them with asterisks, emojis and the like. For a time, there was a reference note listing the meanings of each. But he had them memorized now, minus the newer ones.

Something else

A dialogue

Talk to me.

About what?

Just talk.

Okay. I almost broke my tooth.

What? How?

I was eating a hard-boiled egg, and I guess I didn’t get all the shell off.

You almost broke your tooth on an egg shell?

Ha, yeah. I mean, I thought I did. I didn’t.

Well that’s good.

I know. Can you imagine if I did break it? Then, for the rest of my life, if someone asked if I’d ever broken a tooth, I’d have to say yes. And if they asked how, I’d have to say from an egg shell.

That’d be quite a story.

I know. I almost wish I had broken it.

I miss you.

I know that too. And know what?

No, what?

I miss you too.

Tell me something else.

Something else.

Census white

A dialogue

Yo, the census doesn’t have a box for Hispanic or Latino.

What do you mean?

There’s no box for it. You can only be white, black, American Indian or Alaska Native — which isn’t it Native American what even is Alaska Native — Asian Indian, and then five kinds of other Asian, three kinds of Pacific Islander and boxes to fill in some other Asian or Pacific Islander. Like, how are they gonna have Filipinos with their Spanish-ass last names be their own race but act like Hispanics aren’t their own other?

There’s no fill-in box?

There is. But you know they must be checking for people to write in Hispanic or Latino and switch’em to white.

What is it, though? Hispanic or Latino?

It’s both. What are you, black or African-American?

Black’s a color.

Yeah, and brown’s a color too.

But Hispanic’s not a color.

But brown should be.

You’re not even all that brown. There are old white dudes at the beach browner than you. Why can’t you just be white?

Because I’m not white. Do I look white?

You look like you could be a couple kinds of white. Like Italian.

Okay?

Plus there are Hispanics that look white. Like half the Spanish soccer team. And does Gisele Bundchen count as Hispanic?

I don’t know.

Besides if you can be white, why wouldn’t you want to be?

What do you mean?

Like, then you get white privilege. And then anyone who throws you shade for being brown or whatever, you can be all “well actually, I am a white person.”

You’re stupid.

Nah, I’m serious. People like you can change shit up. You can make it a problem for them to be white.

Racist Profiling in Arizona

I wrote a version of this a few weeks ago while driving back to Los Angeles from Arizona. I pulled off the highway to write it. The whole drive until that point, from the Grand Canyon to Williams to Kingman to Ludlow, I couldn’t stop wrestling with how I felt when I was in Arizona and why. It was the first time I spent real time in the state – meaning “not holed up at a business conference” – since I was a kid, since I realized how some people look at me and people who look like me, since I learned what that 7th grader meant when he called 6th-grade me a “spic.”

I wrote it on the side of the highway, then I put it away. It felt too angry, too unfair, too personal. Then tonight happened, and I feel too angry because this feels too unfair, too personal. To me and people who look like me and other people who don’t look like him. So here’s my anger. Here’s how unfair it feels. How personal.

To the white in the “The 2nd Amendment is my Homeland Security” shirt.

To the white who smiled at my white girlfriend but didn’t look at brown me.

To the white in the bright orange vest and bushy mustache.

To the white in the UNC hat with the sunburnt neck.

To the whites wearing biker cuts into the Kingman Cracker Barrel.

I don’t know you. Who you are, what you believe, how you see me. I could hardly see you. I saw around you.

This is Jan Brewer country. Joe Arpaio country. Land of the Minutemen.

I couldn’t see if yours was a racist’s face because I couldn’t see past this place.

I couldn’t see what you saw in my face. If you saw my face. If you saw what I saw in you, even if it wasn’t in you.

And then I looked away. I didn’t want to see it, even if it was in you. I didn’t want to give it life.

And then I crossed the border into California.

And then, two minutes across the border, I saw a Trump billboard.

And then, three-and-a-half hours outside of LA, surrounded by a desert that turned brown or always was, I saw a big rig in my rear window, its grill coated in the confederate flag.

And next?

Election night

I can’t sleep, so I’m just gonna write until I can.

Give me a keyboard I want to write

Not a pen or pencil

I want the words to rush too fast for that

Blaze like the pain, burn onto the page

Words to hurt

I hurt

This hurts

 

The TV hurts to look at, to see what this means

Half the country wants him

Half the country believes in him, in what he believes

At least half of those that voted

 

The remainder, the ones who sat it out

This is what you stuck us with

This is what you said with your silence

Fine

Fine that he disrespects anyone who’s other

Fine that he disrespects the truth

Fine

This is the line you let us cross

 

The others, the ones with their third parties and write-ins

This is on you too

Did you believe your candidate could have won?

You wouldn’t vote for her, but did you think your votes for them would beat him?

Did you want them to?

This is what your vote won

This is what we lost

 

And this is how he won

This anger

This fear

This crush

This blame

This pain

This hate

 

And this is how we let him

That ignorant innocence that thought this isn’t us, not anymore

That thought this couldn’t happen, not here

That thought this couldn’t win, not him

This is us

This did happen

He did win

And now we feel like them

And we can’t