Marsha, a Black Drag Queen, began our march into the liberating light. Would honor her, take up his torch, and lead our community into the liberation of Jesus, the light of the world.
I look at myself in the mirror and I see no value, no worth, no dignity. I see insufficiency. I see repulsion. I see something unsightly. I tell others that they are fearfully and wonderfully made but I can’t stomach the same medicine. It’s a bitter taste to bear.
In the midst of the conversation I was asked, “Why are you so angry about this? This doesn’t even affect you. You’re not Native American.” Now, there are million things wrong with that line of questioning. However, I leaned into a particular part of the question that cast an even more particular degree of Puerto Rican shade: “Whatchu mean I’m not Native American?” (Insert side-eye)