The sun will come out, tomorrow.
2016 was a big year for white feminism. A complex year.
The election results hurt. A lot. I would even say the result ruined our Honeymoon. It’s difficult to admit. I grieved and tanned on a beach simultainiously. I cried behind sunglasses and consumed too many posts on Facebook.
After returning to the States, I was surprised to find I wasn’t the most hurt. I found myself comforting white feminists. They were hurt. They were the most devastated. I had to continue the role of positivity and kept my fear silent. I felt it was my responsiblity to repair the bubble they had created for themselves.
In a way. Nothing has changed. Boys will be boys. It’s just locker room talk.
Machismo was a word that was never said out loud when I was growing up. It just was. The man was the head of the household. The man worked harder than the woman. God chose men to lead and women to follow them. All fact. I learned my place. It was behind a God-fearing man.
I could never share my fear with white feminists because it will never effect them. Fearing my loved ones will be deported. A feeling, I can barely put into words. A feeling that I have to push back down. This fear is what keeps me awake at night.
I’m not afraid of being grabbed by the pussy. That’s already happened. Has been happening. Will continue to happen. But will the sun come out and help protect the undocumented?
Probably not. Especially not when their bodies are in jeopary of NOT being governed by their own rules. Especially not when they need to fight against how they make 81 cents every white man makes. But what about my average of 55 cents? As a Latina, I get the lowest.
The sun will come out for themselves.