Dear WhiteWomen (TM)*,
*(lemme throw in the disclaimer right away that I’m speaking to a particular set of White women. Lemme add on the obligatory I have White friends disclaimer. This is not about my White friends…you’re going to make it about them. But it’s not.)
See how you’re sitting at your desk or looking at your phone in shocked silence while you sip your Mocha Peppermint Latte? Maybe some of you have even said out loud, “how did this happen?” while you clutch the infinity scarf wrapped around your neck. Maybe some of you are crying.
SHUT THE FUCK UP AND STOP YOUR FUCKING WHINING BECAUSE I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT!!
Before you fix your fingers to type something in response. Keep reading.
This is on you.
You. Who would rather cut off your right arm than allow voting rights for the Negro before a White woman. But still ask Black women to march and burn bras because, we as women are all in this together.
You. Ann Coulter – the Leni Riefenstahl of the Fourth Reich – who in recognizing your own shortcomings and limitations, spread the propaganda and hate of men like Trump and Pence because you know that you’ll be afforded some protection if you hang on to those coattails long enough.
You. Amy Schumer. Who can build a career out of casual racism, but look around at the world wide eyed and innocent and say, “what did I do wrong?” when you’re called out on it. Then actually state in all earnestness that you think Beyonce was telling women to get informed.
Just so you know; that’s NOT what “get in formation” means.
You. The concerned mom in the parenting group who can’t understand why a transwoman “needs” to use a women’s washroom. You know it’s not “politically correct” to say it out loud, but you worry about what this means for your kids. That predators will use this an opportunity. But you had no qualms about voting for a man accused of raping a child, and who will go to trial for this as a president-elect.
You. The co-worker who asks me why it’s okay for Black women to wear blond weaves, but it’s not okay for her to wear cornrows to work. Never acknowledging that if I wore braids, that HR would tell me that it’s not professional and instruct me to change my look. That if I don’t, I face reprimand or dismissal for the exact same trendy hairstyle you feel you should be able to wear because it’s just a hairstyle.
You. Who love saying “yaasssss bitch slay” when the mood strikes. But don’t acknowledge – wait you don’t even KNOW – how your cute slang came to be and that the inventors are regularly discriminated against and risk their lives for existing. Or are ACTUALLY SLAIN.
You. Who can wear enough self tanner and style your hair with dollarama perm rods because you “feel black on the inside”.
You. Who worried about your son losing his job to “a Mexican”
– sorry, an “undocumented person” (because you’re not racist).
You never took into consideration that your son did NOTHING to earn the job in question, because you taught him that he has inalienable rights as a US citizen and that this somehow includes whatever job he wants…including president.
That this country was built (on the backs of slaves and foreign workers) FOR him. These same sons who pledge allegiance and promise to protect you. Except when war actually breaks out and you get a doctor’s note for his broken foot or poor vision. The same sons who dodge conflict but get mad when a football player kneels during your battle hymn.
You worry about his future as a competitive swimmer when he rapes unconscious women. But we know what you say when you’re sipping your wine behind closed doors…she shouldn’t have been drunk because “boys will be boys”.
You. Who think it’s no big deal to dress as Sexy Pocahontas, or call your favourite celeb your sprit animal. Or wear a ceremonial headdress to Coachella. Remember how offended some of you were when Madonna wore crucifixes? Now multiply that feeling by a thousand.
You. Who are automatically included in the efforts for equality by other marginalized groups by virtue of your gender, but when the roles are reversed, ask us prove our solidarity.
You. Who want us all to lean in, but never invited the rest of us to the table.
You. Who will fear a Black man in a suit when he steps on to the elevator with you, but not fear the White college student who sets a car on fire when his favourite team loses (or wins) or who joke about raping you because boys will be boys, right?
You. Who have taken for granted all the people who have worked to protect you, all the people who thought you were WITH them in the effort to build a better world.
You. Who have retreated to your towers of privilege and pulled up the ladders.
You. Who hold Hilary Clinton to a higher standard than any of her predecessors because she’s a woman and should know better. You, who judge her abilities based on her husband, but didn’t judge Trump on his lack of abilities at all.
You. Who are protected by a layer of privilege that is as thin as gossamer and as resilient as chainmail. A privilege so light and airy that you forget it’s even there. That no matter what YOU say or do, you will be protected by your sons, your fathers, your friends, and your mates. That they will be the ones who will take up arms to defend your honour. You sleep at night wrapped in that gossamer layer knowing that after all…tomorrow is another day.
You. Who say, “All Lives Matter” but can’t explain how or WHY Tamir Rice, Trayvon Martin, Sandra Bland, Mike Brown, or Freddie Gray died. You need google to remember who they are.
You did this. You did this to yourselves. You did this to the rest of us.
We’re tired of showing up for you and you not showing up for us.
The election last night? They came for everyone else.
What are you going to do when they come for you next?
Who do you think is going to protect you now?
Hang on to your lattes and your pussies darlings…it’s about to get bumpy.