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? (Continue)

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” (Continue)

Sometimes I feel that I am a bad Black girl because whenever my white girlfriend and I sift through Netflix (Continue)

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. (Continue)

A poem (Continue)