Girl Blue

Girl turned blue. What did she do?

No I will not attempt to type some elementary rhyme to mention not her hue, but her demeanor. The girl has turned blue.

In a constant to remain hopeful of something to intrigue her mind. What is it? A longing for that star since burnt out beyond her years of existence. She longs to find the other side of the universe. Or perhaps to find that time and space are part of a continuum without a clear beginning or ending. 

How do we imagine the beginning, before the universe as we are becoming to know? A white empty space. How do we imagine the end? A seemingly spontaneous unfortunate event were the moon collapsed and had fallen onto Earth. More accurately, when our star has past its time into death. May we be dragged into the pit. Frightful, panicky, perhaps already extinct. 

This girl is blue because she is unconcerned with what the mundane world, society and life may offer her. There isnt a thing at all imaginative about that relationship to materials; jobs to purchase materials; people around another to reveal, compare, and to relate about materials. 

What is imaginative, inspiring to write what no one would ever be able to read: her trip to visit the stars. A journal of isolationism, omnipotence written for her. A letter to herself in the past about her being so blue. 

She’s lost interest in this mundane world. At some point attempted to reconnect. Only to find the pointlessness of it all. She lost all hope of finding a common understanding in all aspects of appreciating another. Then a slight advice from a concerned spirit raised her interest to rekindle what was lost in the form of communication. What she had found instead was the same, the mundane. Lonely as ever walking through life gazing up and around. Those around staring at someone quite strange, or as some one to take precautionary measures of… she walked alone. 

No one else to understand who she is and why she may appear with her eyes dark and face wet. A polite smile to strangers that walk by in judgement of her. 

How else does she imagine isolation? Oh so much so wanting an unfortunate event to take place where she is then left stranded. On an island that she will not assume possession of, a claim of discovery, and never will deface the nature. What does she imagine? To sit alone on the beach and to stare out at blue. To walk slowly, to feel the sand beneath her toes. She oh so want to feel the deafening silence of loneliness. 

To sit and wait for the sky to turn orange, red, then to turn black. We’ve rotated away to face the moon. She looks up again and imagine the night sky grabbing hold of her body. Shred her being apart so that only in essence does her mind and vision exist. Traveling throughout space to experience the evolutionary happening of possible new beginnings of life-too curious about their purpose. 

To float, no, actually to fall into space forever a wanderer who has lost all sense of contentment. No longer a person, without a pronoun to describe the body’s physicality in a sense. This life falls forever into space for eternity. A blue phenomenon receptive of every other element that extends beyond the universe that was known in the previous history.  

The imagination is extended to spontaneous energy forming to conduct a strike on the blue phenomenon. Hurt in a way, how to rejuvenate in this vastness? As in the previous history, to find a source of energy, perhaps a comet. No cosmic rays existing as natural sources of energy. The blue phenomenon latching on again. The uncoordinated destination is Earth.

Dead stars become blurred, new formations become seemingly rapid. A color of blanketed clouds, or as it seems in a stand still. Swirls of light, color, pressure all around. The blue phenomenon overwhelmed. Snatched and sling forward, thrown from its attachment, declining back down to Earth at an ever increasing speed.

The girl wakes from her trance. Where is she? ‘She’ is I, and I am here walking past hotels. Sitting alone at a table abandoned somewhere that was once something. I am she dozing off thinking of an island with the sky reflecting the ocean blue. This is me, my upset, my longing and so forth. A life lived in the present has nothing to offer for a curious star gazer.

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 Writing A Book

To know how to read the student is taught to write. To know how to write the student is taught to read. 

The basics of the stroke of a crayon, pencil or pen in our early years tells us how to properly begin the story. They start with the article ‘The’. 

‘The boy’ as the subject. 

‘The boy ran’ as the subject doing something, in this instance [always] going somewhere in a forward direction.

‘The boy ran home’ as the subject going somewhere thought to be pleasant. 

The students are asked to write a forward thought as well. Why is the boy going somewhere pleasant? Is he anticipating something? Yes, he is anticipating to play, to eat, to do whatever that kid is concerned with more so than the lesson. Or so one may think as we were kids once but never overanalyzing kid-like thoughts. 

That’s the basic of how to write stories, and we continued to write stories that way until told otherwise. Or until told that the subject is someone else imagined. 
I’m typing this, rather, to explain my short trip to the bookstore. There I go to scan thoughts, phrases and ideas to soak in and to practice on my own. As well as I’m there I am always to read the preface, introduction or the very first chapter or sentence of the first or second paragraph of a thought. In those ‘firsts’ I gather the subject that the writer is to expound upon. As well, how the writer introduces the subject. 

I have come across that great stories or stories that are to mimic those that are great-it’s alright the first article ‘The’ was writen once before in billions of writings-begin either with a scene doing something or a person or thing doing something within the scene. 

For instance, the scene set in the time of marshes, raindrops left on the petals over night and fog is telling the story of a fantasy, of a crime or of horror. Some great writers write this scene to tell something about nature. What is its overall significance to the subject, the plot, or even the conclusion? Does this scene have meaning or is it simply the beginning? That all depends on how the writer describes the scene and how the writer writes-specific or overly detailed. Most importantly how well the writer may write.

The second instance being that the subject is either thinking, speaking, or the writer is speaking of the subject. Toni Morrison writes a poetic version of the writer speaking of the subject’s scene and viewpoint. Others like George R.R. Martin may write of a fantasy subject thinking then to explain why that subject thinks that way. Who knows what a ‘warg’ is and may do besides him? It’s the way in which the writer describes the subject that may captivate the audience to read more. 

The ability to imagine too, to identify with the subject or scene allows the reader to continue reading.

There requires no sophistication in word choice as the Victorian writers. There requires no complexities in sentencing structures, just the ability to connect with the reader. The ability to describe in a way that captivates your audience. 

The story simply has to be interesting to the imagination, intriguing to the mind. 

Hashtag ‘Talk To Someone’

I revealed today that I am in fact depressed. I took to my most frequented social media sites to confess what all I have been feeling. That is, I am depressed and have been this way since for as long as I can remember. I took to Facebook to tell the few high school classmates, college associates, immediate family members and strangers- that like my thought processing- that I suffer with social anxiety and depression. And that I have felt this way since I was 10 years old, maybe younger or slightly older.

This was a late night/early morning confession so the response was of only one private message. One of the strangers told me that she wholly empathize with me, then to suggest medication and therapy. Why, then? I had revealed within the confession that people, generally, are the source of my fears and pessimism. That I find discomfort not only in being around people, but people as individuals. People as in judgmental, uncaring, self-centered individuals that I have not understood and will never come close to understanding in time. These people, generally, are the source of my stress, anxiety, social phobia, dating phobia, etc. As I told her, the stranger, I have been medicated for this condition before. All the while taking the pills, feeling the medicine or rather feeling emotions that have been inactive for so long jitter about inside of me. Not once did it cure my response to how others mistreat and misinterpret me. I thanked her for the advice and the shared empathy anyway. In a minute later my mom ‘liked’ my post. She always accuses me of writing excessively, too much for her to read so she ‘likes’ the post, pictures and comments anyway. I then made a rash decision to delete, then to deactivate my profile.

I was a social media user since the age of 14 years old, around 2008 when I wanted to connect with my peers. As a quiet, introverted teenager never afforded the ability or the will to express myself it proved useful. I used social media to express my immature nature; my dumbed down nature to better relate to those around me in school. As well, I used it as a platform to discuss relevant issues that I normally kept quiet and complacent about. After some time I deleted the 13/14 year old ‘me’ to tackle important issues in politics, or about religion and other social issues. Not that I was popular anyway, not that anyone cared, but I posted and shared my opinions that my conservative Christian ‘friends’ disagreed with. As a result I became largely ignored. I continued to post and debate, alone, and to myself, anyway.

Today I deleted pictures, memories, post, and removed tags. The task was simple. Again by no means was I ever popular and I did not share as much compared to others. Today, as well I found a note from 2011 that I did not delete. The note was about my frustration with the homophobic comments my circle of associates, classmates, etc. often expressed delightfully. I expressed how disheartening it is to hear people speak in ignorance to those like myself. People like me who had yet to come out, my first story that I had shared here. I remember how I was feeling the time I had typed the note-a depressed teen, pessimistic and suffering from social anxiety. As I went further back I noticed more of largely ignored political social interest, and then more about my confessions. This has not been the first time, now as I was beginning to remember. This is not the first time I have deleted memories, confessions and the like. And in every time I deleted, only to retype and to reword again, my quality of life remained the same. I am depressed, as I stated this one last time.

The cause of my frustrations, pessimism and fears have been other people. Recently, all three are related to my recent heart break. I had to come to terms that I was using social media to make her understand how much her apathy, and unloving nature tormented me daily. And that her new found love just confirmed all that I have feared and confessed to her. I had told her that I had gone through bouts of depression since I was a teenager. No, I had not fully recovered though in my mind I thought I had done so, compared to her confusion and fears she too confessed to me. I had confessed that I am broken and expected her to break the cycle, to be different from others and to be understanding. It was then that I had failed to realize that she is like all other individuals. She is like all the others-the source of my frustrations and fears. One message after another for a month, all disconnected and all in repetition wanting her to acknowledge, understand then to apologize. My pessimism called for her to block me, to reveal that she is who I know her to be… Though it is difficult to say when you love that person. I had to block her instead, once I found out she blocked me as well, I had to make my last confession.


Celebrities are coming out to confess their thoughts as well. They make a head liner-‘I’m Depressed’. Or, at least, they vaguely mention how they are feeling so the editor comes to that conclusion to write that viral title. The public responds by saying: how can this be that someone rich and famous who is given all that they may ask for in life, only to be discontent? And as we read of another who has died due to suicide, we have the public reacting by stating even money cannot buy happiness. And now we must talk about depression. It is only during these moments that someone beloved and talented confess and/or dies that we must have this discussion. ‘#talktosomeone’ surfaces on popular sharing sites. The long passionate quotes liked and shared by those that agree are about encouraging people to come out and confess. To find someone, anyone to empathize with your suffering. The reason given is that you are not alone.

The reality of depression is that you are alone. You are alone in your thoughts. You are to deal with it alone despite the helpful advice, therapy sessions, or sympathetic individuals that struggle and fumble with their words of circular positive encouragement. Depression affects the individual and by no means will talking to someone help, or always help concerning the severity and specifics of the illness. The depression may last a short while, given the changes in environment or other self-improvement tactics may help. Then there are others that will suffer through it, or probably not that much longer considering the common end of this illness. Something that I too have contemplated from time to time. It is when the negative thoughts, expected behavior of others, the low self-esteem; the conditions for living on this Earth, in this society, etc. becomes too overwhelming for the person to handle mentally. The ill person then release their emotions and thoughts through silent tears, music, writing, drugs, alcohol, anger, or something else to distract them. In whatever way the person may deal with or to solve their illness the person does so alone.


How do I best deal with my illness? I take a walk. Reconnecting with nature has been something recent and fulfilling. It’s the thought of the pavement or the feel of the grass beneath your shoes do I feel grounded. Most certainly I feel something the moment I walk, to feel the world around me slowed down to a normal, walking pace. To feel nature surround my body, pushing and pulling at my hair, clothes and skin. To feel the heat of the sun…It is then that I feel a sense of release, my mind just as chaotic as ever, but simple. My thoughts become slowed as well, but simple.

I may park my car somewhere, lock it of course, and just walk. I walk away from the noise, the commotion of people. Then to walk away from my life-responsibilities, concerns and anxieties about my future. I take so much pleasure from the brief moment to walk away from the noise and to walk away from my present life. So much so that my thoughts, whenever inclined to self-harm and neglect I think instead of simply walking away. And if it weren’t for the demands of society to have a job, car, and house to survive I would do just that. If it did not mean upsetting my mom as I leave, disappear without a trace, I would do just that.

Since I feel shackled by obligations I only dream to be either taken away or to disappear. I have dreamt of an airplane crash, though I have never flown before, where I became stranded and alone. I could imagine how I would feel based on the brief moments of freedom I have now. To feel nature pushing and pulling me. This is not likely to happen, so instead I like National Geographic pictures of indigenous people whose feet have been shaped by the land. In other dreams I thought to quit, to sell, to remove the excess baggage and just walk away. Where would I go? I would go everywhere, in the heat, under the sun with shoes tapping the pavement. I would just go at random.

If I ever feel stressed by what I am unable to do, I will write it down instead. There was a concept essay in my 10th grade class that my close associate and I wrote separately, then shared. We were to write individually about the greatest invention and to explain why it is great compared to others. My associate and I are similar in thought, still, even though we no longer speak. She wrote that ‘paper’ was the best invention in our world, which allows us to read. She’s still a bookworm. I wrote that the ‘pen’ was the greatest invention as it allow for ideas and thoughts to be more easily shared. In that I discussed written language as the beginning of all other great inventions. I remember now, I asked her about her topic then I shared my own. We playfully argued which of our topic was better in answering the writing prompt. I ended with, if it were not for the ‘pen’ what purpose would the ‘paper’ have been in the course of our human history?


Feel as I may and will forever feel as it seems, I’m fortunate enough to live in a time and place where I am able to share my thoughts. Whether I am to share my thoughts on paper or on the screen there is still a sense of release. This is where I tell myself all is fine as long as you have a mind of your own and the will to express it to yourself first.  You may be depressed, you do indeed suffer with social anxiety but so long as you are a confident thinking being you can forget about the approval of others. Then I leave all other thoughts to rest.

I mean I am talking to someone about it. I’m talking to myself

Would You Like To Upsize?

In the time being that I an here, I am aiming for a purpose or something anticipated. I am aiming for a career as a writer, as an author, as an acclaimed thinker. This has always been an underlying desire since childhood, though never brought forth and managed until now. Only until recently have others suggested that ‘with all of your knowledge and quest for more, as well for your need to express such a need to let it all out…’ Why not become a writer? I made a post, inspired by a questioned phrase stated by myself. ‘Why not now?’

This has been a new pursuit, well a rekindled desire with a direct purpose and reasons to back it. It was of my sophomore year as a an undergraduate college student that I found my desire. I wanted to write, I had typed and shared on a previous blog. I wanted to express myself, however I did not know whether fact or fiction would be my strongest. So I had tried fiction first. As imaginative as my words may appear to be, I have found that my challenge to write a fictional character about an emotion or thought I have not expressed or felt myself proved to be more difficult. I can write, well I can express myself poetically but the stories I find myself writing have no beginning or ending. They are at random occurrence, in the middle of a sentence or thought. For example, the boy walking through the woods. It was at random, a young masculine of center appearing person. The time and place was undefined. The nature was not adequately expressed but I was thinking of autumn. Where he was walking from and to was unknown to the reader and myself. In a sense what I aimed to capture was a feeling, or something I have felt and experienced myself. A person walking through the woods. A person that feels and hears the overwhelming presence of nature in the absence of disturbance by humans-except myself. What I was I thinking remained in my mind alone-chaotic. What I was feeling was so profound at that moment that I had wished to share it. The ability to express that moment and feeling in writing remains as a task to master.

I found that writing in fact to something proved to be more rewarding; inclined to my nature and thought process. The way in which I think is called ‘conceptual knowledge’, though not in reference to math functions but to a personality or way of thinking about ideas. I have shown this in one of my lengthy blogs, The ‘Borg’, as I relate a larger sporadic concept to a defined understanding as it relates to our own reality. I anticipate to write further in this way. As well, constructing arguments to widely held ideas is best described as a ‘brain workout’ for me. Again, another anticipated writing.

The Hunt

Through all of this anticipation, pursuits, and fire where am I? Outside of this screen, outside of my books and journal I am a fast food worker. A recent college graduate who is finding the ‘recentness’ of her expensive, yet to have been paid off, piece of paper- indicating ‘this person is versatile and educated’-is a negative. The moment an employer looks upon my resume they see food- menial task and job regarded for those without a degree. The moment that the employer see a list of my work experience primarily being in food-the assumption goes that I have absolutely no experience worth noting, worth to take a chance on. It is discouraging. Actually quite frustrating knowing that at the beginning of my resume list all of my achievements, education and skills and knowledge acquired that they all claim to so desperately want and need in a qualified candidate. Yet, here I am denied before I make an appearance, denied because they refuse to think outside of the box. As one interviewer rudely, and by ignorance, stated “but you only have fast food experience here”. I would assume that in order for me to not ‘only have something’ I must be given the chance to have something else. However, since I had managed to struggle for years to acquire what I only have now, then what I anticipate to have instead will be years to come. As a fast food manager, I wait and write until that chance is given.

I have played all of the possibilities for myself to become someone to another. I have tried every entry-level job position though without success. They want actual work experience. Since I am unable to lie as it is suggested often to me, I have totally given up. Why? I can rewrite my resume to reflect either the exact details as described in the job advertisement or write all that I am and can potentially be, but still I am worth nothing without experience. To have experience is to be given that chance to acquire experience and not to be judged for not having it. My struggle is in line with all other college graduates underprivileged, yet hopeful.

Though my family would have me to believe that it is my appearance that causes for my denial at every turn. They wish the best for me, though in their taking my interest at heart they ignore their own prejudices loudly projected. In the time I have applied for jobs, similar positions at a time, resume rewritten to reflect their purpose as my own, I have only received 4 interviews in this year thus far. Of those four interviews I have received one position for a temporary job working for the state education system. For every interview I had had, I have followed the correct behaviors and formal dress codes. I came prepared, pen and folder in hand. I came neatly, well dressed and groomed. My tone, manner of speaking always considered professional, proper or well spoken. What is the issue then? I am clearly a masculine of center female destroying heteronormative values and expectations, though not as a stereotype. Those within my community will consider me to be a dapper ‘stud’, or a masculine of center black lesbian female well dressed. According to my family this would all be fine if I were a male, preferably heterosexual, but as a female I should not exemplify that standard. And if I refuse the standard to be feminine then what will come to me is discrimination, but that is not how they phrase it. What will come to me are employers judging me based on my appearance and deciding to not give me a chance because of that fact, and they are right to do so because that is how society works. As I am often told, ‘we have to play the game’. But in their assumption they believe I have had more interviews requiring my presence, or what I look like to be known. No, out of hundreds of applications I have only had four interviews. This means only four out of hundreds know what I look like beyond my name in bold. And what my name bolded and enlarged can tell about my appearance is that I am a black American and that I am female.

What I tell them then, what they are suggesting is the issue now, is that I am to expect discrimination based on my gender expression. However, if I am to walk the line, to appear feminine as society may demand, what if I am denied a chance because I am a black American? The discussion changes, as this is a common issue that they are most passionate about. What if I were denied simply because I am female? To suggest that I must change would also reinforce a common racist and sexist mindset that once denied qualified or candidates with potential that so happen to be not white and not male. And as I recall- throughout my lessons and personal readings-that such forms of discriminations are not to be tolerated any longer. What I tell them then is that they are simply projecting their own prejudice about my appearance. And that they are living in a time where they are unable to give me, anyone else young, advice in how to navigate this struggling economy.

A Crowd

As I tell my mom, as worried as she is about my prospects in life-that I am one among millions of young hopefuls unable to prove their worth in such a tough economy. She will ask me often what I am doing, implying what am I doing with my life so that I can honor my degree. I tell her that I am trying, have given up but trying again. In the process of myself trying I do not mind so much working in the restaurant industry. There I am among several others thinking about obtaining a degree, those in the process of obtaining a degree, and those that have since graduated and searching for a purpose too.

We all discuss our dreams. I wish to be a medical assistant. I wish to be part of a professional sport. I wish to own my restaurant, too. I wish to do something but have not quite figured it out yet. Then I add, I wish to be a writer, but in the meantime I wish to teach. As we discuss everything other than fries and rude customers, it’s like we bond more closely. We are able to laugh. We cut up sometimes and I too try to remind them that this life is only temporary. Why? Those fries, temperature logs and a higher manager yelling about what we didn’t do or could do better again will get to a person. As I tell the others, sit them down, focus on the best that you can do and laugh at everything else. Yes the older customers tend to think of you as ‘lesser than’ or uneducated as they forever remain indecisive and entitled, or unknowing how much of a skill it takes to multitask at an ever increasing speed. I’m referring to restaurants where short staffing means you are the only person taking the order, cashing out the order, filling the drinks, bagging the orders, then ding! next person in line and impatient. I tell them, yes pick up the pace as I am your manager, but relax. Find your rhythm and relax, because you will have something better waiting for you.

Then I think of all others that have given up. The retail managers that laugh about their expensive piece of paper that is still worth everything to them. The same ones that make enough money to afford the essentials and all other leisure time, since they can pay as little as they can to their student loan debt. Not all, but some here are this way. They are those older than I am, a college graduate four years ago or more. And really, what is there to do when one lacks work experience for a position that basically requires what we have been doing and prepared for since the age 9 years old or so? I told this to my coworkers. I was denied a job once for something that I had experienced for years now and that is typing and knowing Microsoft programs. All of this practice, and as I remember began when I was 10 years old to my college freshman year, worth nothing at all. You are among everyone else with the same exact experience and know-how, aiming for the same entry-level positions to get a foot into a door for another.

Here we go, begging for more hours and better pay instead. We ask for a higher position, management, for those exact purposes. Then left limited as the business is limited as well-sent off to other stores to save hours and to gain more. Our best bet is for a second job, another possible yet impossible endeavor. Employers seem to want your time indefinitely no matter if they only schedule you for 15 hours per week. This means that they much rather have people whose hours a free of hassle and careful consideration. Why? They have enough on their plate too, perhaps struggling as we are in home life, work, college classes, etc.

The Purpose of This

I’m not trying to make a statement. Or to make this experience beautiful in writing to captivate an audience that is, too, disinterested. This is simply practice. I am to tell others of my experience, my current thoughts, and what I am about in several post. Then along the way to showcase my true interest in writing, in forms of analytical essays. Or an amateur approach at philosophy. Those are of my greater interest and purpose in writing, and wanting to write and to share more. And I do think this is my true calling here. That is to write in fact to something. This is to share my experience, feelings and knowledge rather than to give a fictional character to represent it all.

Discouragement

After experiencing technical difficulties with this website I felt lost. I had just nearly completed an essay, lengthy as my writing usually can become, only to find it erased. It’s as if I never typed, retyped or researched my topic at all. What was left are notes for this section, careful consideration for the reader. All of it now gone, disappeared.

The feeling was of anger, mostly. I deleted what was saved here as it was not much to revive to its original perfection. I was angry contemplating whether or not I should contact whomever that cannot do the impossible. That is to fix a computer glitch that exist as a technical issue, only on my end. I felt angry, then disappointed. To think of the hard work now left forgotten and unknown to the public.

I felt this emotion but decided to type here instead. I may feel discouraged in my plight to become something I once thought was meant for those brighter than myself. There will be times were I will lose all that I had worked hard. But if I continue, anew, with a different frame or mindset that I can still write, and write well. And here that I may type my heart’s desire of all of the various interest and passions, then I can do so again. The topic and many others will resurface again and I may write and relate to others as best I can again. My mind is endless and so is my time.

It Is So…Poetic

I’m anticipating to write an extended essay about the issues most concerning black Americans and their communities. The subjects are typically those concerns of the poor [i.e. poverty, education, crime, police officers, etc.] and I aim to discuss why that primary focus is problematic too. So I’m gathering a collection of books, typically those that are of the popular canon of ‘black thought’ on such subject matters. Or rather the accepted authority on this subject matter in opposition to my own alternative thoughts. As I gather books I read to find the key points and topics that are related to this extended essay.

Yesterday I decided to read the most recommended and awarded text of this date: Between the World and Me authored by Ta-Nehisi Coates. Actually I skimmed through the text, as it is rather short and can easily be done, and found that I was not impressed. Do not become mistaken here, I skim then I read a book first. The initial captivation among the pages are what confirms my need to purchase, to read, then to recommend to others. I can only read of what I have skimmed if it is profound or simply interesting. I’ve found neither adjectives are appropriate for this book. Perhaps, as all others, being poetic with their ‘blackness’ may captivate an audience that are the same and those that are white Americans and liberal-minded. However that is all and nothing else.

Of course it was written in a time where police homicides of black Americans took the nation by storm. People are emotional, calling it the greatest crime against black American males from years past to this date. Though emotional, basically an appeals to emotions, the statistical data proves otherwise. Black American males are more likely a victim of intraracial crime than they are to be a victim of interracial crime or to be killed by a police officer. As well, white Americans, Latino Americans, and Native Americans are largely ignored whenever the discussion of police killings surfaces on mainstream media. The majority killed police officers this year and last year alone have been white Americans. However, it is more profound if we discuss the statistics based on groups or ‘per rate’. Still in doing so we largely ignore that Native Americans are effected more so than black Americans. That is what I mean that it is an emotional appeal and one used tirelessly in the discussion of ‘black thought’-the center of attention ignoring the plights of all others.

There is something about ‘black thought’ that always needs to be poetic and to appeal to emotions. Or to over exaggerate a claim and to assume a collective mindset on all issues, whether all black Americans face them equally or at all. I do not find this common tendency in almost every essay, or every book about issues concerning [some] black Americans, profound or interesting. I too have studied black American history, U.S. history, the history of me and my being here. I enjoy it and continue to read. Though I do not appropriate the pain of my ancestors as that is insulting compared to my far more privileged life and life of freedom. Though I grew up in a rural area I never assume that poverty and the issues that become of those existing in urban areas are similar to my own. Poverty in rural areas is different compared to poverty in urban areas and I cannot falsely assume to relate to those that have an entirely different experience. Or what I am saying here, I refrain from using black Americans as a collective whenever discussing police shootings and killings and all other issues. That would be false to do so, and to give a false impression to others about the experiences of black Americans as individuals. As well it is simply an appeals to emotions to do so. I can discuss my experiences without included the entirety of black Americans who may have or usually have not experienced the same life. And I can do so without the poetic rhyme.

In writing this future extended essay I have to keep an open mind. To include Coates and other like him that all write in a rather similar manner, I must understand their thoughts. Why is it a common way to speak of issues pertaining to some black Americans this way? Why do they always assume a collective experience extending to all black Americans? For instance, his text in referring to the police killing of Eric Garner: “And destruction is merely the superlative form of a dominion whose prerogatives include friskings, detainings…All of this is common to black people. And all of this is old for black people. No one is held responsible.” A collective experience and notion assumed to be the thoughts and concerns, even the experiences of all. To the last statement, why is it common to make a claim based on limited observation; an assumption without facts? I remember around the time Michael Brown was killed, the tension had continued ’til December where I read that ‘police officers are never held accountable’. I retorted with, well it depends on the circumstances of the event and the evidence found. Since within that same month a local news source reported a police officer sentenced to time in prison for his crime against a black woman. Unfortunately I do not remember the details to that particular news story, but to make a ‘never’ claim on the basis of limited observation is quite common. So I ask ‘why’. To ask is to read, and that requires me to read their thoughts.

So, I’m looking forward to reading those differences in thought processing. In doing so I will provide a proper book review of each book I am thinking to include for my extended essay.