Liberal stuck in Conservation Land

I have know Ariel O’Hannigan since we were ten. I was the new girl and she ended up calling my friends at the time for mistreating me. She “took me under her wing” and the rest, as they say, is history. It honestly didn’t take me very long for us to become friends; Ariel had no problem telling you what she thought of you and I always pulled punches when it comes to expressing my feelings. Over time, we learned from each other. I taught her that sometimes, a little delicacy in explaining things and she taught me that sometimes, you gotta run through a muthafuckas face for them to take the hint. We were also each other’s first kiss, which is how we first realized that we might not be lesbians or demisexuals (but that’s a different story that Ariel would have to tell herself). She is my Ride-or-Die and I am hers. So when I say that one of these days, I am going to have to fight my best friend because of her bullshit, know that I say that with love. Also know that she reads this before ...

Growing up as the youngest child in a West African family, I don’t get apologies much. Not for the minor of major. Not for the mundane or grandiose. Not for outward insults or for things that I was not meant to hear. Mainly, I am told that it is a privilege that I am even acknowledge as human because, “Back in Sierra Leone/Benin/Before you came along.” Mainly, it just serves to remind me that life was grand before I came along and PC’ed it up. I asked my dad to apologize for calling me a snake eater once and, I cannot make this up, his response was, “Your apology is in every bill I pay to keep you from feeling like and orphan. Ungrateful monkey.” I was seven. And I never asked for another apology again. SO, whenever I get an apology, I feel all sorts of weird about it, stuck between, “Yeah, I deserve my feeling to be validated for that asshole thing you did,” and “Let me worship at your altar for acknowledging that I am a full ass human person whose feeling you might have trampled t...

My junior year in college, I started hanging out with this guy named Redacted. Redacted was an all american boy; Tall, dirty blond hair, blue eyes and a former fatty to boot. One day I asked him to go to watch The First Avenger with me because I wanted to be there opening night and Ariel wanted to make out with her boyfriend. I never got a response. Ended up going with another friend, Bryan. Bryan, who was also friends with Redacted told me that Redacted didn’t want to come because it sounded like I was asking him on a date. He also said that Redacted couldn’t date a fat person. “They’re too clingy and he just doesn’t want to be bothered.” The only reason I know what happened during that movie is because I now own it. Since then, I have always been conscious of my weight, cognizant of the fact that the extra pounds that I carry around might be hindering my chances at a real and meaningful relationship. Doesn’t mean I stop trying. Oh, Lord have I tried. But every time it doesn’t w...

My parents and I have a deal, and it’s a very simple one. I call them every saturday, and they promise not to call the cops on me. This deal started my freshman year of college. I left my phone at Nathan’s place (his parents bought him a brownstone when he got into NYU on scholarship. Crazy.) and I called to tell my parents that I would get it back later that week. Thing is, my parents do not check their messages. Just see a missed call and immediately call back. They called my number, numerous times, before calling Ariel, who was sleeping in. Over the next few hours, my mother had convinced herself and the members of my immediate family that I had died and that my body was buried in the woods of Central Park. She also managed to convince campus and local police, who found out what class I had and tracked me down, just so my parents would stop calling them. Since then, the rule has been in place; no matter what, I am to call Solace Conteh-Kyari and David Kyari on saturdays, no late...

Sitting in the last meeting of the day at Concord Media Corporation (“Number One for you Unbiased, Conservative views”), I can just taste the end of my day, the velvety smooth chocolate frosting of the “I have two days away from you psychos” rainbow cake. I don’t even know what this guys is saying. I just know that I have ten minutes to be out of this building, whether he is done or not. The title of the slide changes. “The problem with BLM and How they don’t see Dr. King’s message.” Yeah. I’m leaving now. I raise my hand and tell the producer that I had a previous engagement and ask if I may go home. I already have half my stuff packed when he tells me that Social Media Managers have a meeting tomorrow so I can just leave right now. Damn. Also, technically I didn’t lie. My best friend, Ariel, is having a rooftop party with her boyfriend, Nathan, for her permanent gig as a fashion photographer. I stop at a store to get ingredients I wasn’t sure I had, I planned on taking an Ube...