Not like other realityshows
I escaped.
Joy and sorrow have come in waves in the last month. Protests around the Uk. Testimonials from people who have been brave and stood out with their own trauma. Debates about plot versus constitutionally protected rights.
I’m hopeful, but tired, so I’ve stuck with.
When I read other people’s testimonies about their experiences with racism, it feel often like reading from my own diary. I am moved by the solidarity, of the kampviljen, at the same time as it does so incredibly painful. We must witness and testify about what happens to us, we must retraumatisere ourselves by talking over and over about something that really has very little to do with us to do.
I think a lot of it. That racism really does not have anything to do with me. I had to be almost 30 before it went up for me.
< p> My life as a racist CommentThere are some others glance on me, their interpretation of me, and not really me, but melaninen in my skin, it’s all about. I can make myself lighter in her voice, I can straighten out your hair, I can impress with sounding Danish, Swedish, bokmål and nynorsk, I can dress me neater, iron the shirts of my in the hopes to soften the reaction and the response of my body, but it really has nothing to do with me. Nothing. It’s not really my problem. I bear the consequences of someone else’s problem.
I am pretty ungrateful by nature. It is not among my more sympathetic traits.
It is not because of poor upbringing, that I must get insist on. But I can be pretty thankless. I often get told that I’m there.
Not thankful enough that I have gotten the opportunity to stay in Norway, that I can get marry me with exactly who I love here, that I can [insert example of gender equality here]. And I have always stalled when I have been to hear it. Obligation. For why should just I be more grateful than other norwegians?
Ryggmargsrefleksen, steilingen, can turn a little bug out a few times. I can go hard out.
I do not remember longer when I have said what, or how, when it comes to racism. Can one have an original thought about something that’s been written about and talked about for decades, but not listened to? Maybe not. So we repeat. And repeat. Draws a breath when we can. And repeating again. Some of us, like me, have platforms and cultural capital enough that we periodically get blown out. Others have seven summers and fifteen winters, waiting in the chest, and are ready to shout out for the first time.
Then it is not easy to be patient. Or educational. Or the friendly.
this is Why I’m hopeful when those who bear parts of the responsibility, the problem lies with the white majority, taking the match.
And the hope lies in the fact that more votes accumulate. I am an optimist, but first and foremost, I am pragmatist. This debate will come again, must come again. For it is the majority that must drive this debate, which must rediscover the problem and continue the discussion. I can shout and hoie until I grow hoarse, but it helps little if only people who already agree with me that listening. We have been talking about this for years. We are going to continue to talk about it.
We talked about it after Benjamin Hermansen, after Mahmed Jamal Shirwaw, after Eugene Ejike Obiora, after Arve Beheim Karlsen, after Johanne Zhangjia Ihle-Hansen.
Not only for George Floyd. Breonna Taylor.
And so it is backlashen. There are bypaths, as it is so much worse other places. Actually, I can be a little more grateful that the racism is worse here.
It is skinndebatter about the statues and håndhilsning.
So I can forget to say thank you. To those who throw themselves on the first now. When one has been doing something long, it can feel frustrating that someone suddenly is sjokka over something that has been a cliche for you since you were five. That something gets to be hair-raising information for someone who has been given the go throughout life unaware.
Racism #Metoo Comment
It’s a bit like pappafeminister: Those who discover sexism when they get a daughter. I realize that it can feel frustrating. Rather a pappafeminist than no feminist, that is. Rather someone who is new in the fight and kløner it a little, than someone who never joins in. So I remind myself to be generous. And that other people are generous. I’ll be ready for the next battle, when this wave pulls back.
as long as I have hidden me.
I stuck to the west coast, got to borrow a house with a view of Førdefjorden, in a small village where there live about 300 people. I turned off the phone, drank a bottle of wine, and went and let me.
the Day after I came here I went to the local store. I asked her who was working at the checkout if there was any place nearby to buy fresh fish. Then turned the woman who packed up their goods themselves, and said, “my son caught yesterday, so I have nyfiska saithe, which is not frozen yet, you will not only be with and get some?” And I did so. I didn’t get the number her, for she would not have paid, so I take the opportunity to say it here:
Lisa, we prepared saithe, and it tasted fantastic. Heartily thank you. Right here is gratitude in its place.
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