“For those of us who fall between the cracks, being “black,” being “white,” being “Chinese,” being “Latino,” is complicated. These essays, exemplary of the legion meanings of race and culture, are about inconstant categories and shifting skins. Skin color and place of birth aren’t accurate signifiers of identity. One and one don’t necessarily add up to who. Cultural and racial amalgams create a third, wholly indistinguishable category where origin and home are indeterminate…What name do you give to someone who is a quarter, and eighth, a half? What kind of measuring stick might give an accurate estimation? If our understanding of race and culture can ripen and evolve, then new and immeasurable measurements about the uniqueness of our identities become possible.”—Claudine Chiawei O’Hearn, from the introduction of Half+Half: Writers on Growing Up Biracial & Bicultural (via khaetlyn)
We always imagine the nightmares from our past — the playground bullies, the users and abusers — as being a stark black to the white of our childhood innocence. We can’t help it. But then comes a time when we find out that they don’t live a plagued existence in a back alley to hell, and that they walk around and live their lives and build relationships regardless of how they hurt us. Sometimes they might not even realize that they did hurt us.
I was abused, years ago, and locked in a co-dependent cat-and-mouse game that I couldn’t even see happening because I was too loyal and too alone without him. It took all these years for me to even admit that he had hurt me how he did, and even though I have been truly loved and cared for since, the scars he has left on me have not healed.
I know that his path since we parted has been worse than mine. I have gone to a unique, private college in a beautiful part of the country where I have been very successful and happy. He has gone from dangerous situations to public humiliation and worse; he’s through rehab and back. But the latest I heard was that he is going to college and could even be described as optimistic.
It’s an interesting moment in my life, the life of his (and here comes my least favorite, ugliest of words) victim, where I realize how I feel about this. I am angry. I don’t know how he is living now, and whether he even knows how deeply he has hurt me. All I can think of is how my life, every day of it, has been changed because of him, and sometimes the most beautiful moments — when I get kissed, or when a boy gives me flowers, or when I think, “maybe this is me, falling in love, and it feels wonderful” — are ruined by the fear that my past with him injects into them like an inky poison. And it isn’t fair that he is human. It isn’t fair that he isn’t an evil, pock-ridden creature that I can hate without guilt. It isn’t fair that I can’t truthfully believe he deserves the pain and suffering I wish I could throw upon him.
The reason I am writing this, I think, is partly to admit to myself that I do have these feelings. That I am a victim. And most likely this whole thing will get swallowed into the abyss that is Tumblr and I will have let these feelings out without the consequences of confronting the problem itself.
But in case these few paragraphs don’t get lost, the other part of why I wrote this was to add to the knowledge bank from the perspective of people like me, because I can talk about it. Many people can’t. And if by expressing this, three years since I walked away, I can help someone understand or not feel alone, than I guess I did more than I expected to.
The insufferable arrogance of human beings to think that Nature was made solely for their benefit, as if it was conceivable that the sun had been set afire merely to ripen men’s apples and head their cabbages. Cyrano de Bergerac
nostalgia |näˈstaljə; nə-| noun a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations : ‘I was overcome with acute nostalgia for my days in college.’
I feel like people misuse the word ‘nostalgia’ quite often. Unfortunately this…
I definitely used the word Nostalgia today… and second-guessed myself about it, too. But what’s the word I’m looking for?
Ah, I won a karaoke machine. Because, apparently, I’m a dedicated singer? They really should have gotten me a suture kit instead… but I suddenly teared up (not only because this is the first time I have ever won anything, ever). Ugh, there will be serious drama when I get my cap and gown. Will it fit over my dress elegantly?? She wonders.
Whatever. Time to get out of the tower and get some real mud between my toes :)
So, awhile ago I was having a ‘girls’ night’ with some of my classmates. At a very young age I was branded by my teachers as ‘not working well with other children’. Apparently it had something to do with my yelling at a girl in Sunday school over who got to play with the cougar action figures….
This is the wiki site on Portia spiders (a type of spider-eating jumping spider). to be instantly disturbed, skip to “reproduction.” The female spiders eat the male spiders. IN MIDAIR DURING SEX. And, if he didn’t finish fast enough, well, she steals his sperm anyways THEN EATS HIM. IN MIDAIR. D:
Not to mention: problem solving skills AND 360º UV VISION.