The cat slept on the bed. The girl sat on the floor. She would paint her nails black and cry. Once a cathartic and occasional practice, now a daily ritual, one that provided little solace and left her only parched and further saddened. No matter how many tears shed, more would fall the following day, again and again, forever. What she cried for, the cat couldn't say, all she knew of the girl's rampant melancholy was its undying continuity and its standing title as "worst kept secret." Everyone knew of the girl's state.
Walls in the house were tissue, both in width and in stability, through the walls one could hear whether a shirt happened to be brown or beige. Of course, a shirt in this house would never be beige nor brown but blue as most, if not all, things were in this house.
The carpets were a basic baby blue, the drapes a darker navy, walls were dependent on the rooms they wrapped: the living room Carolina Blue; the kitchen, Aqua; the bedrooms, Cyan, Azure, and Duke Blue. The man and woman of the house were both the dull type and so how the house came to be the way it was was lost on any visiting person.
When you condemn immigrantion, does it not occur to you that you are condemning yourself?
The talking points being made are those of the colonizer. I want – need – you to think for a second about what you think these same White people would have to say about your own being in this country. Legal or not, your being here is no different to the browner families wanting to live a safer life away from war perpetrated by the same colonizers banning them from entry to this western world. You talk about “they don’t contribute to society,” (lets take a quick look in the mirror), they have jobs, they pay taxes, they buy from local stores, they pay rent, mortgages.
Your proximity to Whiteness, your place as a “model-person-of-colour”, doesn’t exempt you from the racism these White people will inevitably thrust in your direction.