Featuring original art.
Date: March 6th, 2017
Dear – it’s only appropriate that I call you all this – Lovely Children Of Mine,
Being a single mother does not excuse what I’ve done, it does not excuse how bad of a mother I’ve been.
I am white. I am straight. I am cis. I am a woman. I am able-bodied. So many of my children have it worse – in way, yes, it is worse – than I do because of me.
I was born out of an angry three-way Spain had with England and France. I was very dysfunctional as an infant. I had difficulty understanding empathy.
I have been sexist.
I have been homophobic, and transphobic, and even, in my earlier years, Irish-phobic.
I have been racist.
I have been cruel.
And there is some sort of illness I have, similar to lycanthropy or alcoholism, where sometimes – most of the time in some places, almost never in others – I still am this way. This relapse happens often. But do I let it define me? Do I let it define us?
That is the philosophical argument I wake up every morning with.
The other countries hate me. I understand where they’re coming from. I’ve considered killing myself, ripping myself apart from the inside out, to save you, my children. The reason I don’t may be as simple as cowardice, but I like to think I have some future…out there…somewhere.
There’s no justification for all I’ve done. And I know that being aware of all that I’ve done doesn’t make it any better. I have to be cured of this.
There’s no way I can’t be defined as sexist, racist, cruel…broken. And this, my children, is why I wake up wondering if it’s worth it to try and make a new name for myself. Can I truly get better? With Dopleed Nurmp as President? With anybody as President? Can any President be a true cure? No one person can change me, even surrounded by good people who try their hardest, I’m still…like this. But I think, it’s because they’re not really trying their hardest to help me, and I’m not really trying my hardest to change. Even the Obamas, who worked their butts off (they actually gave me hope for the future!), couldn’t accomplish as much as if…everyone cared more. Cared enough to not just repost on social media. Cared enough to actually protest against, well, me, whenever I relapse. Cared enough to break the cycle of complacency. My children, you see my problems, my flaws, the truly bad ones, and you say, “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll deal with her.” And I do not blame you at all, the fact is, I blame myself, but don’t you need me intact? Don’t you feel you should assist me in my rehabilitation? I cannot express how truly sorry I am, but I cannot function alone, I cannot feel sorry – I cannot feel anything – if I am not in a safe, welcoming space.
Oh, but here I go again, finding some excuse, someone other than I to blame, finding some reason to give me a “safe, welcoming space.” I was heartless – I still am! I do not deserve such a space! I need to do some growing up!
Children, I must ask that you lead the way. I do not suffice. You have to be a citizen of the world, not just of me. You have to love, and love more, and love even more. You have to think rationally and hopefully and intelligently and honestly. You must get better, so I can follow. You have to be architects and poets and activists and you have to disregard and go around the stupid white people, all the while enlisting the smart ones for help. You have to believe in yourself and care about yourself and be yourself and no one else.
I can’t fall apart more than I already have. I can’t lose you more than I already have.
And here we walk into the dark chaos ahead of us, fully aware of the danger…
. . .
A note from ZMKF (who really wrote that letter): One of the best ways I express myself is through music. I am an expert playlist-maker. Here is my Trump coping playlist: Fuckface Von Clownstick. And here is the U.S.A’s “The U.S. Is Sorry/Strong” playlist: The U.S Is Sorry/Strong.