November 27, 2011
Picture of my Grandmother, Kate Shelton(center), My great great aunt Josephine (right). My great aunt Melvina Shelton (Left) Rolled cigarette swag. 1960’s —————————- Often I image how my world might had been if at this age the decade was 1930, 40, 50 or 60.  I could give a fuck about over photoed “handsome” white men and “timeless” white women that circulate the internet.  I have always had difficulty associating Marylin’s or Betty’s with something worth celebrating.  Mostly through knowing my participation wouldn’t have been considered ‘acceptable’ or ‘proper’.  I think that falls squarely into the notion of residual bondage.   Delving deeper into that thought comes the reconfirmation from my living family who have recollected, what I would call, their survival. I can appreciate how my options would have been limited to learning a trade or fading in to the dust.  How every personal advance I made would be in the shade of practicality set by my awareness of social limitation.  Fuck, in that thought alone I’m so grateful just to be able to sit here and perceive life this way.  Against the swell of history I see where I’m fortunate. I like to think that I would have had the inclination to step out of bounds and define my own sense of independence.  All the behaviors that I see in my elder family that I disagree with and see as passive weakness’s/acceptance wouldn’t have been personally accepted traits of mine.  I feel so desperate for a self that will never know that time or place.  At a second glance, I guess most with enough freedom to consider the thought would assume or wish that no matter how their life went they’d still recognize themselves. I probably with have been an ignorant racist, real talk. Unfortunately I just ended up thoughtfully naive and intensely difficult to refute/stubborn

Picture of my Grandmother, Kate Shelton(center), My great great aunt Josephine (right). My great aunt Melvina Shelton (Left)

Rolled cigarette swag. 1960’s

—————————-

Often I image how my world might had been if at this age the decade was 1930, 40, 50 or 60.  I could give a fuck about over photoed “handsome” white men and “timeless” white women that circulate the internet.  I have always had difficulty associating Marylin’s or Betty’s with something worth celebrating.  Mostly through knowing my participation wouldn’t have been considered ‘acceptable’ or ‘proper’.  I think that falls squarely into the notion of residual bondage.  

Delving deeper into that thought comes the reconfirmation from my living family who have recollected, what I would call, their survival.

I can appreciate how my options would have been limited to learning a trade or fading in to the dust.  How every personal advance I made would be in the shade of practicality set by my awareness of social limitation.  Fuck, in that thought alone I’m so grateful just to be able to sit here and perceive life this way.  Against the swell of history I see where I’m fortunate.

I like to think that I would have had the inclination to step out of bounds and define my own sense of independence.  All the behaviors that I see in my elder family that I disagree with and see as passive weakness’s/acceptance wouldn’t have been personally accepted traits of mine.  I feel so desperate for a self that will never know that time or place.  At a second glance, I guess most with enough freedom to consider the thought would assume or wish that no matter how their life went they’d still recognize themselves.

I probably with have been an ignorant racist, real talk.

Unfortunately I just ended up thoughtfully naive and intensely difficult to refute/stubborn