#24: Part 2: Standard English Grammar is a Tool for White Supremacy

Growing up in Oroville, I never wanted to be home. My dad’s simplicity was embarrassing; my mom’s contradictions were hard to navigate; my brother was ALWAYS brooding. I thought they were hella boring. Watching TV was also laborious, as my mom would have us debrief every episode of every show that she felt had an unrealistic portrayal of the power kids could have (The Simpsons, South Park, and even the Rugrats!!!). My mind would wander to places outside of this boring ass town that has more churches than proper restaurants and more fast food places than schools. I would watch addicts with body types that seemed impossible (not in a Kardashian way) who looked like extras from the Walking Dead ride their bikes, not for health, but because they were unlicensed for who knows what. I prided myself on the fact that I never moved back after I left for college.
But now when I go home, I love my mom’s jokes and hearing her laugh (her laugh is perfect, really) and say “girllllll” when she’s mad and/or in agreement with me, appreciate my dad’s care through action, and like to stand in his garden, watching the sunrise with the chickens (or is it the other way around?). I love $1.25 tacos that are better than anything in SF (Yeah, I said it). The heat is a nice reminder of summers spent on the lake, by the barbecue, and eating fresh plums and tomatoes and berries as the juice ran down my hands and face into the wounds on my hands that were symbolic of our struggle to acquire.
I don’t have a room anymore. It’s now a sewing room and overflow closet for my mother. I am resigned to the fanciest of pull-out couches in a playroom that has been designed to spoil the hell out of grandchildren. But I do have a home to return to filled with more life than I could recognize as a child (let’s be honest, until I was in my 20s), and I’m so fucking thankful.