She Called it “White Woman Shit” On the morning of August 8th, I clicked on an Electric Literature essay that showed up on my FB timeline. The essay was written by a white woman who was attempting to own how she was complicit when confronted with racism. Imagine my surprise when I saw an …
My stomach doesn’t discriminate. I’ve thrown up Dubra. I’ve thrown up Grey Goose.
I’ve thrown up while dressed as Abraham Lincoln.
I’ve thrown up with a pirate hat on and shamrocks on my cheeks.
According to my doctor, my stomach produces a lot of acid. My first AOL screen name was TumsRockMyWorld.
Dad always talked about America like everything there was bigger, like shit that happened there actually mattered. Mom laughed, called him a Yankee potato-eater, but I guess he wasn’t kidding after all.
It probably won’t sound like it, but this is a love story. It starts during Christmas in 1985 at Birchwood, a long-term inpatient institution for people with what was broadly termed mental health disorders.
You’ve told yourself that your emotions are a burden on your family, your friends, and later, your lovers. You worry about how everyone else feels in response to what lies in your heart and choose to ignore what hurts you. What you feel just isn’t worth talking about.
Daddy speaks with pride that I am the first lawyer in the family and with relief that I am not the drug-addicted lost soul of his fears.
1. The problem is all inside your head, others will say this.
2.But the problem lingers in your wrinkled bedsheets.