There is a strange emptiness to life without myths.
I am African American — by which I mean, a descendant of slaves, rather than a descendant of immigrants who came here willingly and with lives more or less intact. My ancestors were the unwilling, unintact ones: children torn from parents, parents torn from elders, people torn from roots, stories torn from language. Past a certain point, my family’s history just… stops. As if there was nothing there.
I could do what others have done, and attempt to reconstruct this lost past. I could research genealogy and genetics, search for the traces of myself in moldering old sale documents and scanned images on microfiche. I could also do what members of other cultures lacking myths have done: steal. A little BS about Atlantis here, some appropriation of other cultures’ intellectual property there, and bam! Instant historically-justified superiority. Worked great for the Nazis, new and old. Even today, white people in my neck of the woods call themselves “Caucasian”, most of them little realizing that the term and its history are as constructed as anything sold in the fantasy section of a bookstore.
These are proven strategies, but I have no interest in them. They’ll tell me where I came from, but not what I really want to know: where I’m going. To figure that out, I make shit up.” ~
- Had my tank top ripped down by a stranger leaving visible scratch marks on my chest while he screamed “puerto rican day parade”
- Had a friend’s husband drunkenly stick his hand down the back of my pants under my underwear and almost inside me using the excuse that he was trying to give me a wedgie
- Was talking to a guy, seemed nice, kinda cute. I refused to give him my number all night and told him I had a boyfriend (which I did). At the end of the night he started freaking out that he couldn’t find his phone and asked me to call it for him. I did with out thinking. He smiled and took it out of his pocket saying “ha ha now I have your number.” He then proceeded to drunk dial me for three weeks. (he was a west-point cadet)
- Got a ride from a friend to get cigs, he stated that he wouldn’t drive me back to the bar until i made him cum. I hopped the fuck out and called my sister to pick me up.
- Countless ass grabs from strangers who would then turn/run away
- numerous men not taking “thanks but I’m just here to hang with my girls.” as an acceptable response to their unwanted advances.
- I was dating a guy for a few weeks. I went to the bathroom, when I was coming out he was standing there, pushed me back in and tried to have sex with me against the sink. I had to knee him in the balls to get out. Never spoke to him again (added bonus, he was a cop)
And that’s just the shit that’s happened in bars. This is why we look at all men as potential predators, this is why we never feel safe, because this shit has happened to EVERY SINGLE WOMAN I KNOW.
Notice how many of these were by people she considered friends. We’re not even safe around people we should be able to trust.
Review is a new show about to premiere on Comedy Central where Andy Daly plays Forrest McNeil, a critic who reviews life experiences instead of media.
In this episode he explores being a racist. It ends with one of the best callouts of casual racism ever.
*whispers* do you think ALL my favs are problematic?Probably.