round table, about nisha, white
About Nisha.
White:
She does not speak too much, for fear of what may happen. There are conversations around her every day that she tries not to pay much attention to, or else she may explode with the things she does not say. She will explode with the things that she can never say because it would mean losing everything she knows.
She does not talk about anyone that she knows because the conversation would inevitably drift into how she is surrounding herself with bad association. She will become like them because she is hanging out with them. Whoever ‘they’ are, right? Because she has such a lack of will and self-esteem that she cannot retain her individuality in the utter depravity by which she is surrounded. She does not talk about anyone she knows because people will think she is one of the despicable, the outcasts, unclean and unfit.
She does not talk about her job. Because it really is just a waste of her time to be in theatre and teaching at an art school. It is beneath her. She was doing so much better at Peralto, a secretary’s secretary. There was room to move up in Peralto. Real growth available. At Kunst School of Arts, she does not have any status. They are not offering her tenure. And it is just theatre. God knows the people that get into that. She does not talk about how much she loves not being herself for a while whilst she teaches others about the theatre.
She does not talk about how she does not like herself. She cannot, not when black people do not get depressed. There is no room for her to be depressed. That is just for white people’s lives. She cannot talk about how she would like to kiss a girl once, to know if the feelings she has bubbling inside her are just that she is lonely. She cannot talk about how it eats her up inside to know that she never measures up. That there is always Ashley or Dena as the model children. Never Nisha. She does not talk about it because to admit that she is continually running from her home life and everything she knew is admitting to them that the other side of the coin looks a hell of a lot shinier than this side.
She does not say a word to her family about any of the things that burn inside her bones white hot and crowd at the tip of her tongue. They taste bitter on the way back down her throat, acid and hot around her heart until she has to close her eyes against it. She cannot tell them what bothers her, though she fears she may explode from what needs to be heard. She can feel it building until there is nothing left for it, but to escape further away from those that refuse to listen. She turns a deaf ear to the conversations around her and prays that one day she will be free.
White:
She does not speak too much, for fear of what may happen. There are conversations around her every day that she tries not to pay much attention to, or else she may explode with the things she does not say. She will explode with the things that she can never say because it would mean losing everything she knows.
She does not talk about anyone that she knows because the conversation would inevitably drift into how she is surrounding herself with bad association. She will become like them because she is hanging out with them. Whoever ‘they’ are, right? Because she has such a lack of will and self-esteem that she cannot retain her individuality in the utter depravity by which she is surrounded. She does not talk about anyone she knows because people will think she is one of the despicable, the outcasts, unclean and unfit.
She does not talk about her job. Because it really is just a waste of her time to be in theatre and teaching at an art school. It is beneath her. She was doing so much better at Peralto, a secretary’s secretary. There was room to move up in Peralto. Real growth available. At Kunst School of Arts, she does not have any status. They are not offering her tenure. And it is just theatre. God knows the people that get into that. She does not talk about how much she loves not being herself for a while whilst she teaches others about the theatre.
She does not talk about how she does not like herself. She cannot, not when black people do not get depressed. There is no room for her to be depressed. That is just for white people’s lives. She cannot talk about how she would like to kiss a girl once, to know if the feelings she has bubbling inside her are just that she is lonely. She cannot talk about how it eats her up inside to know that she never measures up. That there is always Ashley or Dena as the model children. Never Nisha. She does not talk about it because to admit that she is continually running from her home life and everything she knew is admitting to them that the other side of the coin looks a hell of a lot shinier than this side.
She does not say a word to her family about any of the things that burn inside her bones white hot and crowd at the tip of her tongue. They taste bitter on the way back down her throat, acid and hot around her heart until she has to close her eyes against it. She cannot tell them what bothers her, though she fears she may explode from what needs to be heard. She can feel it building until there is nothing left for it, but to escape further away from those that refuse to listen. She turns a deaf ear to the conversations around her and prays that one day she will be free.