i noticed that

his hair is tough like my fathers. in all of my 26 years, he’s only been around for less than 2 percent of it all and somehow, the care, patience, and understanding he has shown me has far surpassed what i’ve received from my father during my entire lifetime.

i noticed that she reminds me of my grandmother. the way she plans ahead without announcing her doings. she walks cautiously. she speaks carefully. the things she doesn’t know she asks about with appreciation and passion, unafraid of revealing her unfamiliarity and eager to gain more knowledge.

friendships are flowers — in order to appreciate a full bloom, we must be present for all the moments in between.


I saw someone with the same long sleeved, Polo button-down as you today. It was striped. Thinly striped. Primary colors. Spring/summer appropriate. Very 90s & “In Living Color”. We were hella thrifty at that time. This shirt had the kind of fabric and pattern that always looked a bit wrinkled — no matter how much you ironed it, no matter how much elbow grease. The one I saw today was wrinkled just like how yours would be, just like how the skin by your eyes would wrinkle when you smiled. The first time I ironed your clothes you would smile and those eye wrinkles would charm me. I remember ironing that shirt for you. I remember ironing all of your shit for you. I remember how it made me feel. You didn’t know how to iron back then, or at least you said so. The first few times it was kind of romantic — the way we used to play house. Suddenly it became an obligation, a routine, an expectation, and a submission. It was one of the ways you measured my devotion and affection. If I expressed thoughts that were anything less than enthusiastic about ironing your clothing, you would judge me. I remember when you got an internship during university. Pressed clothes became a requirement. I would get annoyed when you would come home and just take off your slacks and leave them on the floor to get wrinkled all over again. I would ask you to hang them. I showed you how. You would do it sometimes when you cared enough but it still didn’t change the fact that you apparently didn’t know how to iron. I tried to teach you, but of course your excuse was that I was better at it then you, which was true. I guess that meant that I was supposed to just suddenly embrace this task with a smile continuously. I would make a joke every time that you needed your clothes ironed. You didn’t like that I didn’t jump at the opportunity to iron your shit for you. You would say that I should feel honored because another woman would never grow tired of doing so. You would say that I was petty. You challenge my opinions, my strength, and loyalty to you with such insecurity & manipulation that I felt so sorry for you, yet frustrated, so in the end I would end up ironing your shit anyway. You did this kind of thing all the time. You did it anytime I expressed any thoughts or emotions that you didn’t agree with — even things that I didn’t express from my mouth you would pick up on and try use whatever tactic you could to rearrange me.

Fuck you.

I bought a steamer.

Non-blacks love to say “I like Black people” as if that statement is supposed to get me wet and salivating.

It doesn’t really even make me more comfortable, because now I feel like I have to dissect your admiration and see where it comes from. Is it a fetish? Is it cultural appropriation?

Regardless of the context, generalizing a group of people and the demeanization & commodification of those people is what created this mess and this paranoia in the first fucking place.

In all honesty, I’d rather you not say that kind of shit to me. I’d rather you say to me that you’re a non-discriminatory kind of person and that you believe in equality and you see beauty in all shades.

If you want to say that you think that colored skin is beautiful or that you enjoying studying African American history or the history of African countries, but to just say “I like Black people” makes me uncomfortable and suspicious.

It’s like saying “I like pizza” or “I like traveling.” That’s the kind of thing you like that goes without saying. You just like that shit. for whatever reason but I don’t suddenly feel like you’re a better person because of it.

People say “I like Black people” as if it’s some shit to be rewarded for — like I’m supposed to be impressed or feel connected to them.

However, if someone says “I don’t like Black people”, I find that to be just as controversial. Either way, I would think “WHO TAUGHT YOU THIS? WHERE IS THIS SENTIMENT COMING FROM?”

Oh, but I’m supposed to be so grateful and appreciative that someone can feel confident & revolutionary enough to tell me that they like Black people. I’m supposed to feel like this person is “on my side”. I’m supposed to feel like this person is on that #BlackLivesMatter vibe. I’m supposed to be happy and smile when someone says “I like Black people.” I’m supposed to say “Thank you.” We aren’t supposed to question the implications of these kinds of statements. They want us to just take what we can get.

Not sorry, bro. I’m not blindly fucking with that. That kind of talk doesn’t turn me on. It doesn’t make me feel good. It doesn’t make me feel bad however, it’s just suspcisious.

We have to talk about it. These conversations are necessary. Black people aren’t here for you to “(dis)like”.