You want to know the moment I realized I was really sensitive and not as cold and dead as my black eyes (I’m coming to terms with the fact that they are basically black) make me seem?
I was at Boone County High School in the middle of nowhere Kentucky my junior year, and in Bio they were trying to get us to dissect mudpuppies. Usually they had alternatives, but this year you just had to do it. I had psyched myself up for it for like 3 days and when the day came—and I walked into the formaldehydey classroom, I couldn’t. I heard a knife-happy kid (who is probably a serial killer or dead now) say, “WHOA THERE’S BABIES IN MINE” before we were even given the go ahead to start cutting. So I left in protest. My teacher was one of those buzz-cutty guys that kind of just swell up until they pop around age 70, and he kept yelling at me to grow a pair, and get over it, etc., But why? Why should I have to cut open some dead mud puppy? Why is that even in the plot of my life, you know? I am not meant to cut open dead things.
I didn’t do it. And I got an F on that project. And the world kept spinning. And I ended up with an A in the class because teachers always make things seem like they matter a bunch when they really don’t.
Always relevant. I got a comment on YouTube that was like, “There aren’t black girls like this.” Which is rude because no, I’m not a special snowflake in that regard. There are LOADS of black girls who don’t buy into bullshit media stereotypes, and you’d see them if you wanted to.