Dear mr. Kempen

My heart nearly jumped out of my body when you spitted out your toxic venom like a snake ready to kill and eat it’s prey. And me just a tiny mice trying to learn, trying to make myself invisible, hiding from your angry glances and your smart remarks about my braids “ha they look like rope”, “hey do you ever think about using them as jump rope” or “if we were on a island and we needed fire, would you mind if we use your hair as a fire starter and when I looked at you with disgust and anger you tell me it was just a joke but what you really wanted to say was “shut up little black girl and swallow this joke I made to hurt you, swallow my whitness, my bitterness because my wife left me for a black man. Can’t you see that I am mad because soon my daughter will be asking me if she can get the same braids as you and my son is starting to wear a Dorag, why can’t I just lay my anger and worries on you like if you were
A couch and I know my job is to teach you about animal but I’m going to tell you how this land wasn’t really the Indians land and how the NFL shouldn’t be protesting because the cops are not killing black people as much and that they should be GRATEFUL. I wanted to stand up and tell him to shut the fuck up and just because the cops are downing down their killing spree a bit doesn’t mean I should jump up and down and be happy because only 4 unarmed black men were killed this month, thank you for showing me the light. But I didn’t , I sat there and let the wondering eyes fall upon my face waiting for a reaction but I did nothing. I let his whitness make a bed out of my tongue and all I could do was sit there with my head down waiting for the conversion to change. I guess that’s the thing, white people making us feel bad for not feeling the way they do