You can keep it

A white woman told me a couple of months ago that she no longer has any empathy for me. Which makes sense. I don’t think white women naturally have any empathy.

I was called mean and controlling by someone who, frankly, I never tried to steer in any direction they didn’t already want to go. People often conflate me stating my opinion in a sentence that ends in a period with trying to redirect them toward my ideology. That’s never my intention, but I’ve learned it’s often received that way. In reality, I’m hoping for dialogue, a little pushback, a fun tussle in the mud. It makes getting what I want more rewarding.

This same white woman completely ignored my existence when I saw her in person. To which I say: I’ve had white women erase me before their own eyes for as long as I can remember. Not even a simple “hello, how are you,” just a complete looking through my silly little ass. No niceties, no acknowledgment that I too am here, on the same astral plane.

I am not an apparition of shitty friends past. I am a full being, wrapped in my own mistakes, a product of a multiplicity of abuses and identity crises.

I speak of my own baggage relatively freely, and in doing so, I’ve learned that the people around me believe it diminishes their own experiences. Well, I invite you to share your shit just as loudly as I do. I invite you to crack yourself open and fuck up just as largely as I have. I am not going to take responsibility for your discomfort if you don’t say anything about it to me.

Six months ago, I didn’t know if I could crawl my way out of a disappointment of my own making. Six months later, I feel the best I ever have in this life. I do my own thing and it fucking rocks. I work out more often and my closet is color coordinated. Sometimes I go out and sometimes I stay in. I am not worried about who in my group chat is judging my lifestyle. I am not beholden to going to a slew of birthday parties and performances where I have to pretend to care about everyone’s “art.”

Sometimes, I’m embarrassed by how badly I wanted to go with the flow and pretend to respect people I honestly didn’t—and don’t. Which is no shade to them. I was more concerned with keeping up the facade of having a large group of folks who all made beautiful things in this world and were “radical thinkers,” when the truth is I genuinely don’t like most people and I genuinely don’t like a lot of things. I am particular, and when I lean into the authentic people and things I love, I am a better person.

I don’t surround myself with people who don’t share my values. I don’t go see empty art or attend gatherings where everyone trades surface-level quips in lieu of substance. I don’t think I’m better than anyone who does, but I just don’t belong there. I thought the forced shrinking of my world would suffocate me, but in reality, the peeling away of things I felt pressured to do (by myself) has been an unravelling from a cocoon.

I think the dislike goes both ways, but I’m detaching from it. There is a difference between disliking actions and disliking personhood. A dislike of actions can lead to admitting mistakes and moving forward. But if you don’t like me as a person—the way I speak, the lived experiences that shape me—then I can’t help you there. I can’t turn into a soft-spoken, gentle individual. It’s a bit too late for that now. I tried, and it resulted in my safety being at risk.

Also, I am not here to play victim. I know I am difficult. I know I have a sharp tongue and can poke too hard. I am not for the weak or the meek. I am not for the easily offended. I am not for white women protecting racist fathers or for rich people who lie about their wealth. I am persnickety and inquisitive and, more often than not, I am wrong. I change my mind more often than people think, even if I initially come in hot. I am a better listener than people assume, and I don’t desire to push or drag things out of others if they aren’t willing to share. That is not my business, nor is it my job.

Previously, I thought being in a group would protect me. That people would be soft around my point of view. A few years ago, that illusion shattered. I was yelled at publicly by a man in front of a table full of people who sat there and did absolutely nothing, then afterwards blamed me for the altercation. I groveled and apologized, thinking it was my fault. I received no apology in return—from a man who consistently said unhinged, sexualized, and racialized things to me.

That type of friendship, that lack of having my back? Babe, you can fucking keep it.