If you follow me on Twitter, you know that I attend a Boxercise class. It is a class with which I have a love/hate relationship; I hate the act of going but love it when I’m there. It’s a fun if intense workout and my instructor is not only friendly but also rather hot so you know…win.
Part of the class involves pairing up, doing some sparring and then running through some drills. 99.9% of the class are very mature about this and partner off pretty easily; either with friends/workout buddies or introducing themselves to strangers and just getting on with it. I think is because we are all supposed to be adults as opposed to ignorant, childish little fuckwits.
Dear Racist Lady at Boxercise,
During last week’s class, I stepped out for a minute to use the bathroom and when I got back, almost everyone was partnered up. This wasn’t a problem for me because I, like all the other normal non-idiotic people attending just thought I’d partner with anyone; this is, after all, just exercise and not a choice of who to spend eternity with on a desert island.
I bent to tie my shoelace and happened to hear you voice to your friend (who ironically had teamed someone else) that you “didn’t want to partner the black bitch” and what I want to know, my dear foolish classmate, is:
- Why you’d say something so bigoted out loud in front of witnesses
- Why you thought I wasn’t going to say anything back
You see it’s unfortunate for you that after years of being bullied, taunted and discriminated against because of my skin colour, I don’t take that shit lying down any more. Gone are the days I would lower my eyes and retreat to a corner to lick my wounds and I guess you caught me during a particularly racist week what with all the Save the Pearls debates and what not because you certainly seemed shocked when I in turn called you a racist sack of shit.
I get it. It was perhaps a harsh invective. On a normal day, I might have taken you to one side to explain that your words were not only hurtful but extremely ignorant and also that yes, I happen to already know that I am black and don’t need some helpful lady with “Shannyn” tattooed across her cleavage to point it out. I might also have taken the time to reassure you that I am aware that I can be a total bitch at times but that I usually reserve such behaviour for deserving individuals and you, love, are Exhibit-motherfucking-A.
I think it threw you that I stood up for myself; that I opened my mouth and told you in no uncertain terms how partnering with a racist person didn’t exactly fill me with joy and that I’d rather mash salt into an open head wound than so much as touch you. And so I understand why you went lolloping off to the instructor to tell tales on me. HOW SAD IT MUST HAVE BEEN FOR YOU WHEN HE THREW YOU OUT.
Hot and intolerant of bigots. Boxercise instructor, if you are single, holla at me.
I can’t end this letter, racist lady, without dropping some knowledge on you and I will even bullet it so that when you leaf through what must be the numerous folds of your vast cranium (/sarcasm), you will have a succinct list:
- Contrary to what you may believe, black people are no different to any other people on earth. We eat, sleep, win trophies, make babies, write books and win Presidential elections same as you.
- If you’re going to be racist – and that is your right as a human and an asshole – and you choose to voice your racism in front of people, please don’t be surprised when people react.
In conclusion, I just want to thank you for giving me the opportunity to defend myself and let any other closet racists in the class know that I am not the one for that BS.
I would also like to take this opportunity to express my disappointment on not seeing you in class this week. I have been perfecting my uppercut and would have loved a chance to show it to you.
PS. Bitches be trippin’ and you, my friend, are one of them
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Stereo. 20-something aspiring bon vivant. London based. Exceptionally Nigerian. Partial to snark. My default setting is "wry". Jeans and blazers are my uniform. Landlady. Speed reader, tuneless singer, hoarder of words, drinker of Schloer; I am suspicious of most people, have zero tolerance for tomfoolery, have a vast DVD collection, worship at the altar of Al Green, own too many bottles of nail polish, have small eyes, small ears and giant hair and owe approximately 86% of my awesome to the Parents Typewriter.
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