A rant

Racism is such an ugly thing. It makes you hate people you don’t even know. It closes doors, it hurts people. It’s so widespread. It’s a disease that so many are afflicted with and they have no idea. Sometimes it seems innocent, like it’s just ignorance; there is no harm in it, but where do you draw the line? 

It's difficult to admit, but if I’m going to be honest, I see it in myself. I put people in boxes, I categorize them and label them without realizing it. It is only when they surprise me, when they behave in a way that doesn’t fit the mold I put them in, that I realize that I caged them in the first place.

I saw something small today. In a living room, about to head out to a soccer game, a boy told his girlfriend to change from shorts into long pants. When she asked why he said, “En la cancha hay muchos negros, no quiero que te miran” (“The field is filled with blacks, I don’t want them looking at you.”)

She shrugged passively, and went to go change.

I wasn’t sure I heard him right. “Y por que va a cambiar? (“Why’s she changing?”)

“Vamos a la cancha ¿entiendes? Hay muchos negros, miran y llaman a las chicas.” 

(“We’re going to the field, understand? The blacks come to watch, they stare and holler at the girls.”)

“Porque son negros? (“Because they’re black?”)

“No, porque son desagradables.” (“No, because they’re disagreeable.”) He said, like the last word tasted bad.

I looked around the room, and his friends nodded, “Sí, es verdad.” (“It’s true,”) one said, and picked up their conversation about futbol.

It was a moment, and it flew by so quickly. I was too baffled to grab on to those words and shove it in their faces to show them how mistaken they were. I watched the girl come back in long green pants, and there was just too many things wrong with the past five minutes for me to process. So I left and secluded myself to my room and I paced and paced. I sat on my bed and I couldn’t help but feel hurt and angry. 

I am many things. I am a woman, I am Latin-American, I am North American, I am a New Yorker,  I am Caribbean, I am a beautiful mixture of blood lines and skin tones, and I am strongly opposed to asparagus and racism. 

My abuelo is Caribbean, born in Trinidad. He has very dark skin, and so does my mother. 

My mother is one of the smartest, most profound women I know, due in part, of course, to her father’s intelligence and insight.

My boyfriend’s mother is from Jamaica. His name is Evan and he also has dark skin.

Evan is the most honest person I know, hands down. He’s humble and true to his word, and that’s really hard to find.

¿Desagradable? Disagreeable, unpleasant, distasteful, obnoxious, unkind: these are words that do not come to mind when I think of my mother, my grandfather or my boyfriend. 

If that boy today saw my boyfriend walking down the street, would he would put him in the “disagreeable" box?

I suppose that’s why it hurt. My grandfather, my mother, my boyfriend, these are all people I love, people I cherish and honor, people I would do anything for. The fact that some stranger might look at my mother, a woman I look up to and respect, the woman who raised me to be a strong and thoughtful human being, and find her "disagreeable" just by casting an eye on her beautiful brown skin, makes me angry. It’s so unjust and despicable it makes me furious and I wish I could brush it off, I wish I could call him an ignorant bag of shit and forget about it. But I can't. It’s too easy to do that. By brushing him off, would I not be subjecting him to that same judgement to which I am so violently opposed? What he said was disagreeable and obnoxious to say the least, but still, how can I ignore him when he is breathing and laughing, moving and speaking, just like me? I can’t say I’m better than him, I’m not better than anyone, we are all the same. We all sleep and cry, we eat and shit, we are all living, we are experiencing our lives at the same time. How can I dismiss him if he is a brother of mine?

But what do I do? This disease is raging throughout the world and poisoning the way we think, the way I think. What's a little Yadi to do?

Blog about it, I guess.