Being a “Black Racist Superstar” Is Not Fun, However, Being a “Superstar” Isn’t All That Bad
I’m not into the flashiness that comes with public recognition and that’s why when I was contacted about Medium’s “Noteworthy” initiative — I was quite stunned by the realization that I was being asked to expose myself in a way that wasn’t familiar.
When I decided to make Medium my preferred medium of personal expression — it happened organically — as if it was an event that was waiting to happen without fiesta. I just wanted to write as if my life depended on it.
My method of delivery wasn’t gelling with most publications. A handful of outlets were open to my offering, but as expected, our relationship was short-lived — and I was tossed back into the burner of trying to relentlessly pitch for attention.
I grew weary of begging to be heard and decided that I would construct a playground that would host only one player — me.
I figured that if I was really as good as I hoped I was — then perhaps it was time to convince the person who mattered the most — me.
And so off I went into the wild without any expectations — expecting the best — and more than ready for the worst. It was a slow climb — but writing in the dark turned out to be the best experience ever, because of how empowering it was to be encouraged by the dismal numbers.
Nobody was reading my shit — and I didn’t care. I enjoyed the audacity of being able to churn out my deepest emotions without the burden of an audience who may or may not sway my ability to maintain the momentum of my life.
As it turns out, the training I received toiling undercover, served me well, and ultimately prepared me for the day when I would be royally exposed.
I’m proud that Medium chose me for the honor of being a notable. I wrote my ass off without pause and a lot of what I produced came from a primal need to shed the layers of pain — that accumulate without knowledge.
Since, my “newfound fame” I have encountered a healthy dose of hostility that has done very little to deter my agenda. However, a comment that was deposited in response to one of my recent articles — cut me down in a way that hasn’t happened before — because to be quite honest — I really don’t fray that easily.
I’ve been through enough shit to shield myself from the horrors that can erupt from people that are hell bent on forcing me into their personalized chambers of hell. Also, I have mastered the skill of separating myself from anything that poses a threat to my overall mental fulfillment.
But on this day, I had to face the facts head on.
My “Noteworthy” status has introduced a slew of fans — but also a few enemies that are less than impressed with the callous way that I talk about White people as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
How dare I be this ordained “Black Racist Superstar” with endless “recommends” and the Medium community backing my efforts — to uplift Black people at the expense of White people — who really can’t stand this shift in loyalty — that ultimately inspired the election of President Donald Trump who is tasked with making this huge boo-boo go away.
The damning comment that was made — praised my article and righteously mocked why it was being praised — by attributing it to the fact that it was once again a “racist” sentiment that perfectly matches my successful trajectory.
When White readers angrily exclaim how I racist I am when I depict episodes of how and why Black people are once again being fucked by a system that was built to deform their vulnerability until death is imminent — I have to immediately acknowledge that this reaction is a testament to the privilege that they prefer to ignore — for selfish reasons.
I don’t expect White people to fathom what it’s like to be Black in America.
We hear the horrific stories and we watch the violent videos and in many ways the graphic evidence becomes so familiar — that it blurts out the brutal reality of an entire population.
It’s no longer a shock to watch a Black man die in his car — with his seat belt fastened — after being pumped with bullets — in the presence of his Black girlfriend and her Black toddler daughter.
We are no longer revolted at the notion that a twelve-year-old Black boy could be playing at a local park and then get fatally shot in the stomach — because the White police officer thought he was a twenty-four-year-old Black male — lunging at him with animalistic fury.
It’s more than acceptable for a Black woman to be pulled over as she’s headed to her first day at a new job — when suddenly things escalate because the State Trooper is saddled with the consequences of an “angry Black woman” who deserves to die for daring to voice her rights — amidst a struggle that she would end up dying for.
Being a “Black Racist Superstar” is not fun. Being a”Superstar” isn’t all that bad — but I’m not really into that sorta thing.
What I’m really about is the freedom to say what I need to say in a way that will make people feel something. I welcome the insults and the sarcastic comments because it proves that what I’m saying gratifyingly resonates.
I don’t churn this stuff out for attention or the chance to be crowned for my adherence to trendy activism, which by the way does exist, but, trust when I say that it’s absolutely not a motivator.
I don’t enjoy recapping, realigning or resuming the issues that are killing my people as I pause to validate the realization that this shit might end up killing me too. This isn’t a recyclable press kit that I re-shine each time I’m yearning for the spotlight or the opportune time to “get those numbers up” after a temporary lull.
This is me. Being a Black Racist with nothing to lose except the disrespect of White naysayers — who hate the fact that I’m justified in my quest to constantly call out the constant shit that people like me have to deal with on the daily.
It may sound like a never-ending lullaby — but that’s because you’ve been conditioned to accept the unacceptable as normal. If it’s not your reality — then it’s not real. It’s that simple.
That’s why White people are privileged as fuck.
This automatically regulates me as the disillusioned, delusional, racist, angry, Black woman — who haunts Medium with the poisoned rhetoric — that is preventing America from being Great Again.
I never wanted to be a superstar, but for Sandra Bland, Tamir Rice, Philando Castile and all the others that were and are to come — I will gladly take that star to go — with extra bedazzlements and my name in lights.