Wednesday, March 16, 2016

The initial inspiration for this piece is barely on my radar at this point, so let me get back to that for a moment. Gratitude. Expressions of gratitude should not be saved and lavished on my Indian man's white woman, when the true work to build him comes from my Indian woman. How does my Indian man allow himself to be so blinded that he sees not the shallow depth of his experience without my Indian woman? How has he bought so wholeheartedly into the colonial agenda he believes he fights, when he secrets away the colonized mass of his existence to be flaunted only in front of his white friends? How does he seek lessons on Indianness from my Indian woman and absorb them like a sponge, regurgitating them for profit without outwardly acknowledging my Indian woman? He fails at lessons of honor and humility. My Indian man's sense of self is weak and scared. It withstands no challenge. It runs screaming, when questioned, however harmlessly. My Indian man, with his white woman is a shell. Other Indian men with their Indian women tell me this. "Until you face what you are, you are only a shell and you cannot be your who you are meant to be until you admit this." My Indian man with his white woman is pretending. 

Jess McPherson

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