I met a white girl. I met a white girl and I didn’t know if I can relate to her.
See, as a black woman I was always concerned with black. Black hair. Black virginity. Black smoke. Black lynching. Black victims. Black.
For many, I was a victim.
In my head, however, I was a warrior. A black lone warrior.
Then I met a white girl.
She looked me right in the eye and asked if I knew the pain of being white. “White trash, whore, privileged, whore, whore, easy,” she whispered. See you think I’ve got it all, but do you know the pain of witnessing your brother overdose on drugs because he was a gay white man. To see your own dad abusing your mother in this place you call home. Day after day. And then you leave home, and face a world that regularly sees you as a joke. A world where Starbucks makes the thin-lipped white girl a spoilt brat from the bourgeois class. A world where my skinny jeans don’t look good because I don’t have enough ass. I mean not enough sass. See, I might not understand your pain, but neither do you understand mine.
I was angry. How dare a white girl compare her pain to mine? How dare she compare the blood of my ancestors who suffered from racism, slavery and colonization? I asked if she knew the pain of wearing a weave because you are ashamed of your own natural hair? Of being called “black” as an insult. Of bleaching your own skin because my black was not good enough black anymore. See you’re sad ..really sad about problems between your parents whilst I spent 22 years searching for my dad. Girl I’m glad that “nigga” never made it back. Even though my mom still smoke crack, my brother and I will get through that. At the end of the day, we are black.
We sat down quietly. Not a word. Not a breath. Silence was the answer. The answer that this world.. this pain.. was shared between a black and a white girl. We both lived in a man’s, man’s, man’s world. We are the ones lost in the wilderness. We are the ones lost in bitterness.
And thats when I realized I’m no lone warrior. And neither was she.