I’m not a Jesus ‘girl’. I don’t own property, don’t have people living under my stairs, emptying my chamber pot and boiling my eggs.
I did not have my eggs frozen or inject myself with hormones, demanding that my body produce a tiny human.
I am not a mother. I’m not your mother.
No, well intended but tokenizing, rich, white lady, you cannot use my life story for your Tedtalk. Despite our seemingly same degrees, we’ll never be level and as Janet would say: Liz, I’d rather be me.
I like fashion, as in clothes, as in costumes, but hate the fashion industry.
A man once tried to buy me for his son in a store, as like a toy or garment? And while I politely, passively, squirmed away from his attempt to turn me into commerce, I required the privilege of another man to vouch for my humanity.
I will never go to Coachella, not a fan of Taylor Swift, Brene Brown and everything made of goop.
I am white, but I am not a white feminist.
I do however, believe in equality and, went into debt gentrifying myself to get out of poverty so I could be, give and do more than just survive. What label does that fall under? Whose patch, banner, tattoo, t-shirt or tote bag do I wear?
Ism ism ism…all we are saying–John
Writing this chapter on resistance is forcing me to look at myself with brutal honesty. If it’s not transformational truth, why bother?
Editing chapters and digging up unfiltered notes from the margins.