I’m doing it again. That thing, where I commit to write and then I fall off the wagon. I’m trying. The last week has chewed me up and spit me out. Between just generally not feeling well, more shootings, one in my town with racial overtones (that some people refuse to acknowledge) and then some personal struggles I’m having around motherhood and womanhood and childhood (is that a thing) and life. That was a heck of a sentence. You’re welcome.

I just don’t get it. Why is it so hard for privileged people to admit that racism exists. I had a full on debate with someone I know and love about this. He (a white male) cannot see it at all. Well of course he can’t. He’s never experienced it. People used the argument that the guy in Atlanta “said” it wasn’t a hate crime. Well of course he said that. Then why don’t you recognize that people of color systematically don’t even get a chance to speak, much less tell us what really happened? It rocks me to my core. to. my. core.

It’s Women’s History Month in the year 2021, and I still feel like we’re fighting to convince everyone (women included) that there’s a problem. There IS a problem. There ARE all kinds of problems. Why aren’t we working to solve them together instead of denying they exist?

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