My grandparents. They are conservative, Fox 'news' watching, trump supporting, LGBTQIA+ hating, people. I love them, I do, I can't blame them for the way they were raised, but still, ignorance does not excuse racism. People are raised with toxic ideas all the time, and once they are adults, it is up to them to educate themselves.

My school. I go to a predominately white school, with a Native American as my mascot, I am used to pretty ignorant people, I hear the N-word and F-word thrown around like it's nothing, and the teachers do nothing about it. My classmates have said blatantly racist things to me, and I always, and I mean always, feel that I am in the wrong for taking it seriously as if I am the problem.

My point? I have to watch my mouth in front of my grandparents, I can't even discuss race unless I am prepared for them to spin it into some kind of debate. I also have to watch my mouth at my own school. Even in front of my all-white friends. For some odd reason, I feel invalid for talking about race in front of my own friends! I feel guilty for censoring a big part of me. I am a victim of racism all the time, and yet, if I talked to my grandparents about it, they would explain it away. If I talked to my friends about it, they would quickly change the subject. Even now I feel someone is going to defend them, I don't know, it's f*cked up.

it's hard to walk out the door

to make a left down main

and a right on 31st

just past the old stone cemetery

it’s hard to carry plates that smell of California

electric blue margaritas

smiling with the glittering teeth

and ignore sneers of customers

(I'm sorry, "guests")

it’s hard to keep pretending

all for a paycheck

of less than six hundred

to pay the rent and the phone bill

it’s hard to walk into a shop for

a bag of black brew, a bottle of Jack

wake me up then knock me out

numb the agony into a dull ache

it’s hard to stay in a world I

was supposed to call home

where I should have been happy

instead of hating myself

it’s hard to feel

an unrelenting craving to

taste the concrete beneath

the six story balcony

it’s hard knowing no one gives a damn

they’d replace me tomorrow with

someone whose teeth are whiter or

someone who’s got a better sense of humor

it’s hard that I understand

the hole gets deeper each

and every time I try

to climb out

but the hardest thing

is closing my eyes each night

praying to a deity who

never seems to hear me

wishing they'd never open

but when I inevitably wake

doing it all again.

Ohhhhhh this challenge hit me....I am just going to say I am praying for you. 11th grade...whew....Your wings and halo are guaranteed! Today, I was covering a class and I told an elementary student to stop drawing and start doing their work....the response was, "Ho, I don't need this BS (the non abbreviated version.) Gasps spread across the classroom....Being on the leadership team in my mind I was thinking - congratulations my darlin', you have just won the rest of the day off. I am going to speak as an exhausted educator...this year has been rough. We live in a world that is just a hot mess...we see that reflection of society in our kids. Kids see, hear and live this...so when they come into the classroom they bring it hard. I told the kids after that student was escorted from the room that we have choices....we don't always make the correct choice but sometimes we learn from our mistakes or our friends poor choices and we do better. I had a student come up to me after class and he made me smile....he hugged me, shook his head and this precious child said, "I just don't understand that kind of behavior." Driving home I was replaying the day and I must admit I was counting up how many days are left....28......I was at a four way stop sign and I just started laughing.....The ride in front of me was a Tahoe....I thought dannnnng I could get vanity plates that say Da-Ho or duh-ho. You have to laugh when you can. Hang in there!

Boys will be boys. What a cringe phrase we have allowed to pave the way for unacceptable behavior...but only for boys. A gender that is looked at to be the superior sex, excusing lack of self-control and accountability.

A religious birthright they say.

I would agree there is a biological component. Women and men have their differences but why do we continue to act as if the expectations should be vastly different? Allowing boys to be boys while girls are taught censorship and modesty.

Hold them to the same standard you would a class full of girls.

We all have urges engrained in us from birth, but it is society that teaches us who is allowed to openly act on those things giving privilege to one gender over the other.

As for me, I have spent a majority of my adult life in a firehouse full of boys. Smelly, unkempt, flatulent, belching, nut scratching Neanderthal's. I choose to live and work alongside them. Not expecting them to change on behalf of my presence but accepting the way things are in a male dominated setting. Enjoying it most of the time.

Even though I find comfort in an atmosphere where crude and vulgar comments echo off the walls, from my own mouth as well, it is clear that our journeys here came with very different levels of difficulty. I had to work to be rude and accepted in a primitive state. While my male counterparts were uplifted and cast into the role without question or judgement.

Just as I learned how to live among the knuckle dragging cavemen, I call brothers; they too should be required to learn how to adapt and be held accountable for environments that necessitate obedience.

My writing is careless at best. I rarely proofread or plan. Usually, I spit some shit out on the page and hope for the best. I wish I could say it's some artistic choice to show the frailty and imperfections of existence, but it's really that I lack discipline. I guess it's a bit like fucking. Give it all the hell you have in the moment of inspiration, but you know you could have done so many things better if the goal was perfection rather than getting lost in the moment. I guess that means a typo is like knocking on the wrong door. Just laugh at yourself and keep at it and embrace the joys of imperfection. As long as the closing sums up intention the reader is left satisfied. So my shits unrefined as hell, but I like to think there's a certain beauty and innocence flowing within my awkward wordings and forced lines or conclusions. When inspiration hits, just spit it out and move on. Wait for the next time a moment cracks you open enough you feel it's worthy of sharing. Repeat. So ya, a lot like fucking.

self-loathing is born from a lack of validation and outcastish-like feelings during the mind's most important growth time. usually adolescents. I lost my childhood at a very young age. constantly moving between hotels and abuse. I never lived with my mother, I lived with people I was told I was related to but my documents said otherwise. I lost my brother at a young age. (he's not dead, he was just taken by child protective services). I never got to be the big sister to him I always wanted to be. I kept in touch at random times for a couple of years but the flame died out and he's nothing but a distant memory. I was adopted at age 11 (that's an old age to be adopted at) and I always and will always feel outcasted because of that

I could tell you everything in between and it could all be 100% true. but I will never expect you to believe me. because of how society has treated people with trauma and mental illness. I challenge you to go on tik tok right now and look up #mentalhealthawarness or #DiD or #tourettesawarness. the amount of absolute FAKERS on there is UNREAL. everyone has had trauma. some better than others. but stealing others' trauma as your own has become a social normality.

about 16% of women are victims of sexual assault but the amount of Medusa tattoos is more than 16% most of the girls at the high school in my town freely talk about their experiences as if they're normal and not traumatizing. which makes me doubt who is telling the truth. these poor men who are getting blamed. it makes me angry. but does that make everyone's experience invalid? of course not. i wouldn't want my experience invalidated because of others' actions. so that's why you get the full story and study the accused as much as the accuser.

My skin has become ashes

My brain lit aflame from the promises

My eyes dulled from the smoke

As everything around me broke

My blood is flame

In horrible beauty, it destroys me from the inside without shame.

Perhaps the worst of all

Is my heart that opens the cracks to the dawn.

My heart is scorched beyond recognition

Pumping my flamed blood like a man on a mission

As if pretending that there was normalcy as the chaos consumes me

Praying that this monster is my legacy

Something amazing that I'll never get to see

But deep down my heart knows that will never be

As a legacy means nothing if he's not here with me

The blood lit only spark that has grown into a flame

It burns me until no one can know who I am until I respond to my name

No one can accurately tell you about the roller coaster of emotions you are about to embark on when you have children.

The very moment you feel those first flutters of movement inside of you, you are swamped with this overwhelming sense of awe and wonder and love. With no small amount of fear thrown in as well. You are about to be a parent, you will be responsible for the life of another living thing. You will be the teacher, the guide. But what no one tells you is that this is an entity that has its own thoughts, will have its own feelings and fears, and anxieties. The first time your child wraps it's arms around you and tells you it loves you will fill you to bursting with love! And the first time this child looks you dead in the face and says it hates you, your whole world is going to crumble and fall around you. And the part that kills you? Is when you have to look into that precious face and say, "That's ok sweetheart, I still love you." Because as a parent you have to set aside your own feelings, and ensure that your children have the freedom and safe space to feel and express their own. And that is the hardest part, in my humble opinion, of being a parent.