Dear Sad Human,
Hey, it’s me, the guy you called “God’s poop stain” Tuesday evening at the Indian-Chinese fusion joint. Oh shit (ha!), you probably say that to a lot of people. I was in the shimmery camo bomber that kind of looked like the one Karamo wore on AJ’s episode of Queer Eye. No? Eh, it’s cool, I’m sure we all blur to you.
Anyways, after you proclaimed your desire to “extract the world of all melanin”— look at you and your vocabulary! —my friend Bryn said something kind of weird:
“Hey man, ignore him. I don’t see your color.”
Hm. I know, right? “I don’t see your color.” How can you, a being of pure vile and ignorance, see more than the woke AF MFAs I surround myself with? This is, like, some straight up Sunken Place shit.
But this brings me to why I’m writing this: I want to say thanks. Thanks for seeing me, and for reminding me of who I am.
See, after my friend admitted to his colorblindness when you called me a “brownie bitch,” a few things occurred to me. First, “Brown1eB1tch112” was my AIM screen name during a really weird week in 10th grade. Second, I am brown. Proud and brown. And I deserve to be seen.
A lot of people think reality is a one-size-fits-all game. But you and me, we get that it’s not. We know the rules are dictated by things like class, titles, jobs, college majors, economic upbringing, weight, height, and skin color. Being a brown man during this specific time in history has informed my path in a way that has made me strong. Hulk strong. Kaling strong. It’s given me a point-of-view that adds to the cultural fabric that is America. It’s, quite literally, the lens through which I see reality.
I know they mean well; when they say they don’t see my color, they’re trying to say they see me as me. But “me” is dictated by my skin color. By not seeing it, they admit to not seeing me at all; an erasure of my experiences, an extraction of my melanin.
But you saw my experiences. Granted you loathed them, but you still saw it! That’s a thing! Why else would you have called me a melted Hershey’s? (REAL RUDE, DUDE. I ran out of SPF 30, k?)
Racist, it was your hateful words that reminded me of my magic. For the first time in a long time, I felt seen. Really seen and acknowledged. Thanks, bruh.
Thank you for telling me to go back to where I came from, because I know you were telling me to go back to my dreams of truly living the life I want to live. Or maybe you were telling me to go back to Michigan? I guess Detroit is getting back on its feet.
Wait, POS Racist. You and I… is this love? Oh man, this is insane! But this thing you feel for me… it’s so strong. It can’t be denied. No one has ever felt so strongly about me. You’re the exact opposite of what I usually go for! But opposites attract, I guess? LOL #MCSkatKat
Anyways, I should wrap this up. Kaley just texted to see if she can borrow a bindi, so I gotta deal with that. (A bindi! How can she think I might own a bindi if she doesn’t see my color? Am I taking crazy pills?? Racist, sometimes I wonder what life would be like if it was as simple as yours. Zero to 100 with no room for nuance. C’est la vie.)
I hope your dream of ethnic cleansing fails, but thanks for supporting my dreams of making it to the top, and of your dream failing. Self-sabotage, amirite?
Yours in humanity,