Dear Brown Girl,
BY BARBARA JANE REYES
Do you ever get sick of trying to be a miscast space filler in someone else's self-absorbed narrative, that has nothing to do with you. That whether you are in their room or not, it makes no difference to their outcome, though you add color and spice. Do you ever get so fed up, you just want to flip a table, or throw a chair, say this some bullshit, storm out of the room, and slam the door behind you.
A couple of things about that room. They don't want you in it. It's true. But it's also true that it's a pretty whack ass room. Its outdated décor is garish and overstuffed. The air in their room is dense with mold. And it is filled with people who keep running into you because they don't see you there, or want to suit themselves in your skin, then disrobe and stash you when you become inconvenient, such as when more important people enter the room.
You can tell them where they can refill their own glasses. See their eyes well up, see how small they become. See them now, disrobed, see them whimper and mewl. You can tell them their fragility is coming unhemmed, peeking out from their yellowed drapes. Their fabric must have been cheaply manufactured. Gaze at them for a short while.
You don't even have to say anything mean. Say nothing at all. Just gawk, and occasionally, smile. See the sheen on their Vaselined teeth melt away. See the luster of their precious room disappear.
This room is also filled with brown people who are okay with being flayed and trashed. When they are not pleading with you to just shut your mouth, they are trying to push you out the window. Why do you want so badly to be in this room with them.
When they try to convince you that they are "not racist but," you can tell them to shut their dirty lying mouths.