It Isn’t Easier

I saw this Post Secret postcard today.  Amid the chaos in the news and on Facebook and Twitter and every other social media I want to tell this girl,
“It isn’t easier.”
It isn’t any easier to be white than to be any other race.

I am white.

It’s not easy.

You aren’t exempt from slurs. You aren’t exempt from hearing about how “white” you are or in my case how I’m not “white enough” or I act “black”. I’ve heard things like, “You dance too well to be white”. I’ve been called a cracker. I’ve been sneered at and gently told that I shouldn’t even try certain things because I’m not a particular race.

White people can’t dance, play basketball, listen to particular genres, jump, wear clothes that are too “ethnic”; if they cross too far towards a stereotype they become an “exclusion” to some sort of preconceived construct of “whiteness”.

It is a slippery slope. To say someone can’t do something because of the color of their skin. We’ve been there and done that.
Case and point. The n-word is not okay. There is no spelling or context that makes it okay. It is a slur.
B–ch is an offensive word. I’m a woman and I hear other women call their friends that. It’s not okay. If men can’t call women b–ches women shouldn’t be calling women b–ches. No one should be using the n-word. If the only thing that makes it okay to use is the color of your skin, you are being racist. You are making a discriminatory exception based on race.

In the same way that there are Native Americans, African Americans, Africans, Indians, Hispanics, Asians, et al who believe terrible things about other races there are Caucasians who do the same. There are rich people who think crappy things about poor people. Americans who think terrible things about immigrants.

It has to stop somewhere.
It needs to stop in the mirror.
Don’t compare your race to any other one.
Don’t limit your conceptions of your personal beauty or worth based on race or ethnicity or social class or anything but what GOD has to say about you, which is that you are stunningly beautiful and fearfully and wonderfully made.

I am not a skinny, tan, smooth-haired, white girl. I use ethnic hair care products. My boobs laugh at the bandeau bra trend. My thighs have stretch marks. My skin frys in the sun. I don’t look or act any more like the white girl the ads would have me be than my friends who are native or black or mixed.

If we’re ever going to see each other the way GOD intended, we need to start from the inside.

The grass isn’t greener. Nothing will get better until we stop seeing each other as people inside different colored suits and start seeing each other as people.

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