Privilege by Christina Thomas Dhanaraj

Dinsmore Rose Antiqued Note Card (Preview)

There is no beauty in this ugliness; no, none at all.

There is no beauty in standing next to you, shoulder to shoulder, and see someone else holding your hand.

It is not cathartic to tell a story of brokenness, of vulnerability, to an audience white with privilege.

It is not romanticized history that I carry on my back, I show through my scars, and I sing about in my songs.

I’m not exotic.

I’m not beautiful; especially not because of my pain.

There’s no beauty in waiting, wanting, and losing.

And there’s no joy in chasing.

There’s absolutely no romance in breaking within or breaking up.

There’s no magnificence in shame.

So don’t come to me because you think I’m exotic; don’t come to me because you think my pain is my beauty.

My vulnerability is not my seduction; and it will never be your triumph.

Your eyes, they have to stop seeing me the way they do; with pity and helplessness.

My ancestors who broke their back and sacrificed their lives, who spoke of you with utter disgust, didn’t die in vain.

They warned me of you, and I’m warning you now; stay away and don’t come near.

Don’t talk to me like you know me; don’t fucking specimenize me.

I owe you no conversation, I owe you no friendship.

I will deprive you of the space you stole from my people; I will not adjust to let you speak.

But most importantly, mind you, I will fuck your privilege, and I will fuck it good.