fromthemouthofmoi

The following essay was written in response to an online comment about sexual abuse. It is a difficult topic to say the least. In keeping with my ongoing fascination with how race and colour play out in the world, I began to think of my own abuse, in conjunction to my academic studies: how Whiteness and its power plays out in literature and attempting to understand how this same relationship has  inadvertently played out in my own life. First came sleeplessness. My earliest memories are of insomnia. Then came physical torture in the form of being wrapped and pinned into sheets while she jabbed my fingers with pins and needles attempting to rid me of the pus infecting my fingers. Somewhere in this time I climbed to the top of a sewing machine to glance in a mirror and saw, with shock, that I did not look like this blond haired, blue eyed woman that called herself my mother. Me? I had cotton candy brown hair and golden brown skin.  As my body developed prematurely, the onslaugh

My knickers got in a twist. I was feeling overwhelmed and pissed off. Too many people with a hand out and never a hand held out. Too many people with obvious problems that I was willing to lend a hand to, but who clammed up and, became ridiculous, yet still wanted comfort. I've been pondering things like: If you know someone is having money problems but they don't reveal it, do you still have a moral obligation to be a good friend and feed them? Or lend the car, or whatever? Right now I have decided: No. My rationale is that part of sharing your predicaments is the bond it creates between two people. Any successful relationship one can expect a give and take parlance. But if one person does more without the benefit of knowing why they are giving more, then things begin to stink real fast. And if one person is always accepting your generosity but never reciprocates, and you don't know the reason why, then it stinks twice. So what did I do? I talked to myself for a few da