Age 11
“NO! We do NOT use that language! It is ugly and mean! It is ABSOLUTELY UNACCEPTABLE!”
 
I had never been yelled at like that by anyone, let alone a teacher, let alone from the driver’s seat of a moving vehicle. Her shrill words shot like an arrow out of her mouth, soared over a handful of my wide-eyed classmates, found me slumped in the back bench seat of the school van, and pierced my well-meaning middle school heart with mortifying precision. What did I, a smart young girl, probably en route to some honors math competition, do to deserve such an attack?
 
I loudly yelled “Chinks!” as an Asian family drove by us on the freeway, that’s what. Somehow in my sheltered little farm town life, I had managed to skillfully detonate a racial slur before I really even knew what a racial slur was. I had no clue the word was harmful or derogatory; I just thought it was an observation. Me. A smart young girl, probably en route to some honors math competition.
 
I will never forget how I felt in that moment. My body went from zero to full sweat in about 2.2 seconds. I was overcome with shame, yet I still felt a strong urge to defend myself. Unfortunately, I couldn’t use the whole ‘I have Asian friends’ bit because my one and only Asian friend moved away when we were in kindergarten. I quietly apologized and shrunk into my seat, thinking about what just happened. My internal dialogue went something like this:
 
Well, I guess that was a shitty thing to say. I don’t have a problem with Asian people. Where did I even learn that word? Shit. I feel really bad. Awful, actually. Am I a bad person? I don’t want to be a bad person! I guess I wasn’t necessarily being bad because I didn’t know better. Stupid. I was being stupid. I don’t want to be stupid OR hurt anyone. So a) I’m definitely never saying that again, and b) I really gotta start wearing deodorant.
 
Age 17
“That makes you sound ignorant. Either you don’t like gay people, which is ignorant, or you’re using gay people to describe things you don’t like, which is ignorant.”
 
My sister was visiting from college, and we were headed somewhere to do something in her car. (Funny how the unimportant memories fade and the stuff that matters sticks). At the time, the phrase “that’s gay” was a really popular way to insult something or someone you didn’t care for, and I had just flippantly used the phrase in her presence. She didn’t let me get away with it.
 
In the moment, I rolled my eyes at her sensitivity and fired back on the defensive. “Sorrrrrryyyyy,” I said with my highest level of sibling-grade sarcasm. “I don’t mean anything bad by it. It’s just a stupid expression that every single person at my school uses to describe everything. I would never say it in front of a gay person.” (At that time, I knew a total of three gay people: one cousin and two neighbors. It didn’t even hit me that I was gay for another decade or so. Oh, the irony!) My sorry excuse for an explanation tasted gross coming out of my mouth. I sulked silently for a while.
 
Dammit. It does make me sound ignorant. She’s right. I hate it when she’s right. I don’t have to tell her she’s right because she already knows she is. So I won’t. And I won’t say “that’s gay” anymore either.
 
Age 27
“It just really upsets me when people say that. It’s so cruel…I know you didn’t mean it.”
 
There was no defense this time. I just sat there in my own ignorance and immediate remorse as my girlfriend’s face winced from the sting of my words.
 
Dammit! I know better than this. I can’t believe I let such an ugly word come out of my mouth. My co-workers say “that’s retarded” all the time, and I ALSO get upset every time I hear it! Why would I say that? What kind of monster are you, Lindsay White?! Do better! Be smarter!

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​This is just three of roughly three million examples of my own ignorance. In these instances, I overcame the urge to be right and eventually swallowed the awful guilt of being wrong. It feels like losing, but in the end you’re rewarded, pinky swear. For the record, I don’t always seize (or even notice) every learning opportunity. I am a human after all, and we’re not the smartest creatures, despite our opposable thumbs and our position at the top of the food chain. For example, how embarrassingly long did it take us to figure out wheels on suitcases?
 
I definitely know I am not the sharpest tool in the shed, as demonstrated by the fact I just used that expression. I could stand to be more educated and make more informed choices regarding the environment, race issues, class issues, women’s issues, foreign policy, the economy, etc. I could go on and on.
 
So who was I to unleash my election rage like a hungry pack of snarling wolves onto anyone in my real or digital life who had the audacity to vote for Trump?

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None of it made me feel better (except the Disney song, a little bit) or smarter (except the Disney song, a little bit). I hardly even recognized myself. It was as if years and years of repressed anger came flying out of my fingertips. No one was safe from this verbal vomit. You can primarily thank cat-calling men, know-it-all men, men who call me sweetie, men who tell me to smile, men who have touched me without permission, religious people who don’t understand the separation of church and state, and my mother for that.
 
Trust me, I know expressing rage on social media is a colossal waste of human existence. Who did I expect to reason with on this forum? With insults, no less? I started having flashbacks to all the times in my life I’ve been scolded for saying or doing something hurtful. Using the same critical thinking skills that I’ve learned in those crucial moments, I momentarily dropped the case I’d built for myself, scanned my sensibilities, and tried to put myself in the shoes of those I riled against. These were my findings:
 
I meant what I said
I couldn’t find an emoji that quite encapsulated my emotions, so I went to town with my favorite coping mechanism: words. I was outraged at, hurt by, and scared of those who "at best dismiss — or at worst, celebrate" the blatant and strategic racism and misogyny of Trump’s campaign. I wanted to express my gut-wrenching, binge-eating, bowel-moving blend of anger, disappointment, and fear. You know that one breakup you have where you think life as you know it is OVER? It was like that, only about a million times worse. By the evening of November 8th, it felt like America abruptly dumped me allowed a new rapey boyfriend to grab her by the pussy on national television. Suddenly I was the personification of every Carrie Underwood song, slashing all the social media tires I could find. Maybe next time the electoral college will think before it cheats the popular vote. I know I offended people, and I truly take no joy in that. But I kinda just needed to rage against the dying of the light for a minute.

​​I’m also not entirely sorry about questioning the collective intelligence of Trump voters. When I cursed the white uneducated masses, I wasn’t talking about people who lacked the ability to earn a diploma. I was talking about all the frosted flakes out there who lacked the ability to discern that Tony the Tiger would make a better presidential candidate than Donald Trump. I mean, if you’re into the idea of an orange president who is obsessed with the word great, why not pick an affable cartoon cereal mascot instead of a despicable buffoon serial narcissist?

​Okay, I’m doing it again. I know people don’t like being called bigots and/or ignorant. But I just can not for the life of me wrap my brain around any door number three explanation that excuses HANDING DONALD TRUMP THE KEYS TO THE FREE WORLD UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES WHATSOEVER.

But I also meant it for myself
Sorry. I almost blacked out there for a second. That was like the scene in Wayne’s World where Wayne scares the camera away with his self-pity and frustration. “OK, things aren't that great, but I'll get 'em back, OK?”
 
Referring back to the breakup analogy, I had to give myself one last snotty-nosed, puffy-eyed look in the mirror. I was livid at my country, but eventually, the only thing left to analyze was myself. Why did America dump me? Where did I go wrong? What did I do to deserve this rejection?!
 
A sudden realization came over me.
 
Duh, Linds. This is how SO MANY people feel 24 hours a day. Rejected by the very country they love. So you’re just going to sit here and throw an online tantrum? Sorry, friend, that’s not gonna fly. You can’t just throw a safety pin on your black lives matter T-shirt and call it a day, boo. You can’t just wear your protest like a trendy fall flannel for election season. A lot of people don’t have the luxury of taking off their otherness. They don’t blend in like you. They’re used to this. This is why your Mexican wife is more upset by a Lakers loss than a Trump win. She’s used to the folks in charge not giving a shit about her. You’ve been throwing around the word bigot, but you’re also kinda racist in your own complacency, aren’t ya? Eeeshh, you don’t look so good. Now you feel even sicker to your stomach because you just realized you could have been doing more this whole time, huh? Ain’t that some Schindler’s List shit? While you’re reaching for that barf bag, I might as well just get something else off my chest. I’m just gonna go ahead and call you ignorant too. Spending all your time berating people for their vote on Facebook like a damn loser. SMH. You’re just like them. Scrolling down a random abyss of cute cats and lunchstagrams and hilarious Biden memes, peppered with haunting images of child refugees and fancy profile pic filters for the latest mass shooting. No wonder you can’t process shit. It’s already a jumbled mess by the time it hits your brain. You ask what you did to deserve this? It’s what you didn’t do. It’s what you aren’t doing. So stop staring at a screen and fucking do something. Call your representatives. Do your research. Don't fall for the shock headlines. Donate. Volunteer. Make art. Peacefully protest. Speak up. Talk to people. Listen to people. Write your ass off. Own your shit. Do better! Be smarter! 
 
Age 33
Hopefully those who felt insulted by my words can take comfort in the fact I also have no problem ripping myself a new one. Which, I guess is the point I’m not-so-eloquently trying to make. If we hope to clean up our collective mess, we all need to stop treating Facebook like a sloppy, silly cafeteria food fight and get to work on ourselves.
 
I know I can only do so much to hold government officials and the media accountable. (Mostly just using my vote, my phone, my wallet, and my brain). But I could be doing a LOT more to hold myself and others around me to the very standards I seek in a president. I see how I've fallen short at that even in this very post. I’m still trying to adjust the dial somewhere between “shut up and don’t cause a scene” and “let ‘em fucking have it” so bear with me as I learn my lessons and find my voice. And I’ll try to bear with America while she does some learning of her own.

DISCLAIMER:  I share my writing on this platform since there is a high probability it will never find its way into a book. You are here because you clicked on a link. I am not forcing you to read these excerpts from my life as I remember them. I understand there are multiple versions of any shared experience, and this is just one version. I change names where possible to protect identities and request that you do not try to "reveal" them. I am not out to hurt anyone, but I do love me some sarcastic humor and creative license...hope the difference comes across. If you are offended by or don't agree with something in my writing that you chose to read, I 100% decline to care and 25% suggest you start your own blog. Sometimes I swear or talk about things that might make you uncomfortable, like religion and my vagina. If that last sentence made you slightly uncomfortable, this is probably a great stopping point for you. However, if you choose to continue reading, please do so respectfully so this site can continue to be a safe space.

The Ugly… (Continued from Part 2: The Bad - Click to read)

Mom: I am able to take my religious experiences with a grain of salt. It was what it was. I am who I am in part to its influence, good or bad. But I can not forgive religion for destroying my relationship with my mother beyond repair. You’ll hear a lot more about Mom as you turn the pages of this book (or scroll down the screen - whatever the kids are doing these days). But I feel it’s worthwhile to give you the starter package before we upgrade to the pro version: 

With the best intentions, my mom set out to build a wall-o-Christianity around her children. She had been through enough shit in her life to know the world was a cruel, mean place and the only place she felt safe was inside this wall. This was a place where disappointment and unhappiness could be justified with patience and sacrifice. This was a place where questions would be quieted with scripture and fear would be rewarded with love. This place was as good as any when I was little. I was fed, clothed, and sheltered. I felt safe, I felt loved, I behaved. But there came a time when I realized I belonged to myself, not my mother. And I wanted the FUCK.OUT. I was a born creator and performer; my mind asked question after question, my eyes looked for new colors, my ears ached for more notes. There was no way I could stay in that cocoon and be happy with my life. As I got older, I had to make a decision: sneak back and forth over the God wall when and only when Mom wasn’t looking, or tell her I didn’t want to be there in the first place. I eventually chose the latter (ladder) and climbed over that wall for good. This was viewed by Mom as an ultimate act of betrayal. She took it personally. She demanded explanations and when those explanations weren’t good enough she demanded more explanations. It came to a point where we couldn’t, and didn’t, communicate at all. How can you communicate with someone who refuses to acknowledge that a different belief system is just as valid as their own? You can’t. So you don’t. And the tragedy of it all is this: if I had “turned out” the way my mom wanted - she would have been the best mother. So proud of me. So warm. So loving. We would have sent each other letters in the mail, full of scriptures and interesting tidbits from that month’s Focus on the Family newsletter. But I didn’t turn out. I entered adulthood feeling like a burnt batch of cookies. Damaged goods. As a result, “unconditional love” was too much to ask. Sure, she used the phrase a lot in emails and letters and conversations. I knew she loved me just as much as I knew I still loved her. Neither one of us could feel it though. Why? Because of that damn wall. It became the condition - the barrier that refused to let love travel through it. And that, my friends, is why I can’t get on board with any religion that looks more like a fort than a welcome mat.

Keeping it Real: Look, believe what you want. I’m not here to tell you what to do. But could you at least have some manners about it? And maybe find a way to acknowledge the someone else’s current reality even if goes against your beliefs? My fellow Christian Americans - please tell me how you can sing along to Elton John (I know you have), watch Ellen (I know you do), be nice to your gay neighbors at the grocery store (You might have actually been flirting), and then turn around and ignore or shame your gay relatives to the point of suicide. After I told my mom I was engaged, she decided to refer to my fiancee as my friend because she couldn't handle the fact (yes, fact) that I am engaged to a woman. My lady has it worse; her parents refuse to acknowledge my existence at all. If you’re trying to make a loved one feel unloved, you’re knocking it out of the park with this behavior.  But if you’re trying to be a loving man or woman of God, there is some disconnect here. I can’t figure out why some Christians think acknowledging reality suddenly makes them a PFLAG ambassador. It doesn’t. And guess what? Sacrificing reality for a delusional dreamland where everyone around you suffers just so you can earn your martyr card doesn’t make you a Jesus ambassador, either. It just makes you rude. I’m talking to you, Kim Davis.

​You Gotta Serve Somebody: I spend a lot of time wondering where I stand on the topic of religion and spirituality. The truth is, I don’t stand anywhere. I float. I don’t appreciate the fact that, as an extension of my estrangement with my mother, so many people who know me might describe me as godless. Once, a person on Facebook asked me what I believe in. I answered “not nothing.” I believe evolution and creation and God and universe and love are all interchangeable words. I believe love is the absence of walls. I believe prayer and positive energy are the same thing. I believe that souls move through space with the “soul” purpose of evolving. I believe we have only scratched the surface of understanding anything about everything, and that is how it is supposed to be. I am fascinated by time because I feel absolutely constricted by it but simultaneously suspect that it’s a completely imagined concept. I believe in the power of ambiguity and the necessity of opposites. I believe in order and chaos. I believe I am a piece of God, representative of God, and vehicle for God. I believe that being vulnerable to yourself, to others, and to the present moment are all equally valid ways to become closer to God. I believe that one can demonstrate godliness via gratitude and giving and self-reflection and self-care and writing and art and music and forgiveness and compassion and acceptance and letting go. I am God. And so are you. But I'll never try to force you to believe that. 

Thanks to PunkOut for publishing this piece I wrote. 

A song I wrote for my songwriting book club, inspired by The Art of Asking by Amanda Palmer. Also inspired by how much I love my little dollface Audrie. Just so happened to earn Honorable Mention in American Songwriter Magazine's Lyric Contest for this ditty.