class

All I wanted, most days, was a cute apartment with big windows, sheer curtains billowing in the breeze, where I could sit comfortably and read a book.

I don’t get out much — and it’s not because I don’t have a sense of adventure or don’t care about learning about the larger world: It’s because I’m broke.

So, I got an email from my brother yesterday telling me that he’s not coming to the wedding. “I want to be there,” he writes, “I really do, but the idea of being consigned to [our mother and her boyfriend’s] care for the duration of the trip is driving me mad. You know, the whole lack of autonomy and being on someone else's time and all that.”

Men of Color, especially Black men, have historically been coded as animalistic abusers and r*pists when it comes to white women. This stems from the idea that Men of Color literally want to steal and sully the belongings of white men. In turn, it becomes the “duty” of white men to protect white women — not because they truly care about white women, but because white women are the property of white men.

It’s like being a deer in the headlights. You’re in imminent danger. You know it. But you can’t move. You can’t speak. No reaction whatsoever. You just stand or sit there, frozen in time, waiting for the crash.

About a year ago, I was working at a small company of less than 10 employees. I didn’t feel valued, and everyone around me berated one another. Although I was fortunate enough to escape being treated with derision by my coworkers, I’m positive had I stayed any longer, it wouldn’t have been the case.

My therapist of six months — let’s call her L — was letting me go. It was so subtle that I wasn’t even sure what was happening; I had to ask.

From my earliest memories of splashing my siblings at the community swimming pool, I had an idea of what lifeguards looked like — young, tall, and lithe, with tanned limbs and form-fitting swimsuits meant to accentuate the athleticism of their bodies.