In a racist, sexist world, love is conditional

 Every time I write, I have to contend with the question of who I may hurt with my words. Sometimes the truth is a lash. Both for myself and others. Which is probably why I write so sporadically.

The absurdity of it all is not lost on me. How does one ever convey meaning to another being who lives inside their own distinct and unique existence? I'm reminded of this constantly when speaking to my children. All day long, I watch words land at their feet, seemingly powerless. Sometimes even kisses and cuddles are rejected. Their moods and mind, a mystery. I wonder how love ever breaches these borders.

Lately, I've been wondering what to say about their mother's Asian face being a target or what to say about the many people who don't care. Should I tell them that their own personal world is populated with people who are indifferent to the urgency of social justice? How do you cultivate tenderness and intimacy in such a world of unacknowledged betrayals?

I've known for a long time that I have no safe place in this country. I know too that my fears are dismissed and discounted by people who are deeply invested in the illusion of (their own) safety here. I've been told to not be afraid, to not let fear distort my relationships and the choices I make, to remember how good I have it in this country. I've realized that it is their fear trying to speak over me, to speak for me. Their fear and fragility over their own moral fortitude. Their fear that the violence I face every time I go out into the world is rooted in a truth that indicts them. Their fear that they might be asked to stand up for me and the buried knowledge that they won't.

I know they won't because they haven't. They know that no amount of exemplary behavior or accomplishments matters to a violent racist misogynist. But this world rewards cowardice in service of the status quo. Mental gymnastics to justify any kind of racism or sexism ("it's really not that bad") is treated like evidence of intellectual prowess. And tone policing, deflective tears, and defensiveness are intimate tools, always at their disposal.

I don't know what it's like to have people believe me. Or rather, what it's like to not have the fear of being disbelieved. What will relieve me of that burden? Does someone first need to punch me in the face, in front of my children? Does someone have to specifically use a slur? And what if it's my word against someone you love or respect?

I don't even know what I want to say. I don't have a solution for you. I mean, sure, read a book, donate to the cause, take a bystander intervention training, talk to your kids. But if you don't already see me, I know that you will never see me. You are not even reading this. And actually I'm glad for that because I don't belong to you.

I don't have any answers, but I'm writing to document the process, the questions, the fears and the shame that I should not have to carry, the absolute boundaries of human love. I am my own witness. This is how I am learning to count my own true blessings.