14kgoldnyc:

somedaythriftiejunkie:

racismschool:

There are things that white people talk about that few PoC talk about. “The Good Ole Days” is one of them. For you, the good ole days are when politics were clean, prices were cheap, family meant something and everybody was happy. For PoC, today is the best we can hope for and to be honest, today isn’t all that great.

You can dream about traveling back in time. Why the hell would I want to go back in time? If given the chance, which era would I pick? Go ahead, I’ll wait…

You see, you can say things like “I love the clothes of the 60’s, I wish I was alive then.” That is a real thing that some of you think about. That is a luxury. That is part of “White Privilege.” That is something that white people don’t have any reason to consider. It’s your normal everyday. Sure, you can find PoC that say things like that but they have to have a certain amount of tunnel vision to have that fantasy. 

Not only is it something that you don’t have to consider, it is often something you blow off when a PoC points out why it would be a problem for them. This is also “White Privilege.” It doesn’t affect you. Therefore, it doesn’t concern you. You are able to belittle it. Make it “Not a big deal.”

The thing you should know is that the thing you are making “Not a big deal” is racism. Flat out racism. I understand why it’s not a big deal for you. Why are you CHOOSING not to understand why it is a problem for me?

^^ THIS. Especially when they say it in a class so nonchalantly: “I wish we could go back in time”

…

it’s like what time are you talking about? The time period where if I went back I would be enslaved…killed…probably dead, or Jim Crow?

It’s sad, but I feel this *exactly* whenever people (White folk) talk about doing ancestry-delving stuff. How… I don’t know, quaint? Evident of a boring life? Evident of a supremely privileged place throughout history?

I was with my Mom at a large Thanksgivings dinner this past year; at some point after dinner the whitest people in the room (basically it was half extremely-White and half Other, a mix of Latino and Jewish and Black) started going on and on about going on a Find Your Ancestors’ Houses!-type trip in Italy. And I was so fucking uncomfortable, because half of us were sitting there listening to all this ancestor-Whiteness-worship knowing that they could never do the same thing because their names/records/identities/everything had been burned ages ago and the people in power didn’t think they were worth keeping because the Other people were worthless.

It’s the same sort of blithe ignorance at play. Like, that’s nice, you know that your great-great-great-great grandfather was trying to settle in Colorado in the 1850’s (and you somehow seem to believe that he didn’t take part in the expulsion and/or massacre of Native Americans whose land he was stealing). That guy sitting across from you? His ancestors were in chains picking the cotton bolls that made your great-great’s shirt. Mine were somewhere in Russia, but goodness knows where, as they kept trying to dodge pogroms. You found out that your grandfather, when he came from Italy, switched his first and last name for some reason? Huh. My relatives all shortened and Anglicized their names to help their employment prospects. That other guy sitting across from you has a name that was given to him way way back by someone who stole his identity and put his own stamp of ownership on him. And then you say you’re sad for the people who don’t or can’t know their history? While you’re sitting there rubbing it in their faces? 

/Sorry, this turned into a bit of a rambly rant…

I feel like this all the time. I see those Ancestry.com ads, and I keep thinking, “What about me?” I mean, it’s great that they had the one Black guy, but he is the exception here. The vast majority of us will never know.

Let me repeat that for the cheap seats.

We will never know.

My aunt did one of those DNA tests where they find out where your family’s from. The result? We got back a list of 20 different parts of Africa that we might be from. Maybe. And forget about the people who can’t afford to do that, or don’t have a family member that can afford it. We will never know who our people were. We will never know where they lived, other than a vast fucking continent, and a vague throwing of a dart at a huge area and hoping for the best.

So, yeah, watching and hearing people talk about how much better it was way back when, hearing them talk about the trips they’ve taken to their ancestral homes. Must be nice.

 It’s painful. It hurts.