I was mostly raised in suburban white flight zones of Kansas City. While I never considered myself a product of my skin tone, I can look back and see how I was being brainwashed with what has become a nearly instinctual racism. Little insults hurled at TV screens, backward comments about the people on the street, and warnings to not travel in certain areas because ‘those other people’ live there and they are ‘criminals’, those things build up inside a person like a nest of snakes without them knowing.
I don’t consider myself racist. I never have, but I acknowledge when my upbringing is getting the better of me and I’m forced to make a conscious effort to not let it. It is just another reason to dislike my mother, but also the society I was raised in. That we all are raised in.
When I fell, I hit my head pretty hard. I already had Lucy’s blood on me so I couldn’t figure out if it was my blood, or hers. I was disoriented and from what I was told my speech was pretty bad off. I couldn’t stand with enough force to get my body up right, and when I did I was dizzy. It took what felt like forever to get back up the small hill onto the street. Even in that state, that confused traumatized state, I was acting on those childhood programed racist impulses. I was in a mostly black area of town, a crime had just been committed against my friend, and I didn’t yell for help because I didn’t want ‘the criminals’ to get me. Can you believe that shit?
Lucky for me, those two people who had been fucking in the ruins saw me stumbling around and rushed to help me. I didn’t see them coming until they were touching me, black hands, strangers hands. I’m not young, how could I be this torn up inside about something as stupid as skin color. Just thinking about it makes me angry. My first thought was to run, but I couldn’t run with how my body was disobeying me, and I’m very glad that the head injury at least was thinking clearly. These two did everything in their power to help me. They sat me down, tried to figure out what happened, and then eventually drove me in Lucy’s car to Truman Med Center. They didn’t stick around long, walking away into the night as they had walked out of it to help me. I think they were too paranoid to stick around but also they had no reason too.
I know their names and I will be forever grateful. You dear readers will never know their names.
Much like you will never know my name.
There are a lot of details I leave out on this blog. I’ve written about using fake names, my mandate to not take pictures, and not reveal details about certain locations. What I haven’t really addressed is my anonymity.
I write this journal anonymously. I write it to protect myself from those who would seek me out to stop it, but to be honest I don’t think they care enough to even try. I write it behind a wall to protect the people I love. It has the side effect of making it so the people I run into also know that I have a secret, it helps me earn trust. None of those reasons are the kicker reason, the real reason.
The reason that keeps me writing anonymously is so I can have the creative freedom to tell my version of the truth, even if it seems crazy, or is not socially accepted. I’m writing about fucking vampires. To the rest of the world I am crazy, and that thought shouldn’t spill over into my choice on what I’m writing about. Today I realized that the main topic I don’t want it spilling over onto is when I write about myself. About my mother, about death, and now about racism.
If that means that my Facebook page is going to keep having zero friends, and that I can’t push this blog into the front of everyone’s rss readers, so be it.
I’m going to take a few days off now most likely unless something comes up. Not sure yet, I have a few entries I’ve been thinking about for days when nothing important happens. I might type those up if I can’t break away. Henry has been taking care of me (again) but he thinks I was just doing the drug thing (as always). He thinks my typing all the time is me keeping a journal (oh he is right but so wrong). Something his therapist says is good for me. I get the impression that an intervention of some sort might be coming.
Last but not least, I don’t think Lucy died. My two saviors didn’t see her on the street. With the vamp gone they would of seen her, I’m pretty sure of it. Still I’m worried. I have so much to bounce off of her about what happened. I’ve become so used to her in my closet for the last month, it is hard to sleep without her here. Be well Lucy, where ever you are.