The other day, as I was speaking about a group of queer Black designers of which I’m a part, a White lesbian asked me: “when does a group exist just so a bunch of outcasts can commiserate about their shared otherness? I mean, could someone like me join?”

“Great questions,” I said, “my response is identical to what you would say if someone went ‘why do you need lesbian bars? You don’t see me going to a straight bar, do you?’”

• I am a Black person with privilege
• My privilege makes me uncomfortable
• I don’t want to think about racism
• My childhood experiences did more damage than I realized
• There are so many things I’ve said “yes” to that required a “no”

Sometimes I
feel that I am
a
bad
Black
girl
because whenever
my white girlfriend
and I sift through
Netflix
Prime Video
or anything
with a reasonable trial
period
and she says “let’s
watch this
movie or that”
featuring Black stories
I instead
elect to watch a white
narrative
because it’s nice
to forget
about
racism
and the teacher
who called me
a monkey
and
the no one
who called him
out
and
being a bit
Black
and being
a bit
white

Steer clear of Adidas; obtain a degree in Dutch language and literature; wear my aunt’s glasses until I eventually need my own prescription; don’t eat fried chicken; proclaim I’m a fan of Michel Houellebecq; don’t go to a black hair salon; enrol in theological seminary; don’t listen to RnB; date a person blacker than me; date a person whiter than me; don’t eat watermelon; say I’m ‘accidentally black’ because my mother met my father while on vacation and I missed by only an inch the opportunity to be born to a white father who was a doctor, by the way; eat bananas only after I cut them into bite-size chunks that I eat with a fork, just to make sure I don’t remind anyone of a monkey; don’t listen to rap music; learn difficult words.

I’m not one to dwell on the negative, but let me just come right out and say it: I fucking hate summertime.

Like, “I hate Brussels sprouts” hate. “I’d rather be eaten alive by a shark” hate. Whatever you hate most, times 70. That kind of hate.

If I had a gun, summer wouldn’t live to tell the tale.

April showers bring May flowers, but in my world those flowers take the unpleasant shape of anxiety. I need a summer job, because I’d like to start off university with a buffer, but I also want to do fun things because it’s so warm. A morning job would be perfect, but mostly if it’s indoors. Not on some farm. Also not in a shop. Also not in some sad warehouse. After such a long, sanctimonious list of Things I Don’t Want, I’m left with two options. This is how I become a postal worker. The other option would’ve been morning prostitution.