I. The carving out, a coming-of-age story
I remember one of the first times someone denied my humanity.
It was cruel — a bold-faced lie,
told by an adult who had been newly welcomed into my family.
He lied.
And someone I trusted — someone who should have protected me —
believed him over me.
Got me in deep shit.
And I remember how it felt.
Like being attacked.
Like I needed to defend myself, add context, explain.
But nothing worked.
Because his lie controlled the scene.
His lying ass watched me bleed for something he had done,
and we both witnessed it with our own eyes —
but lies told with confidence often win.
For a while.
Power can dress itself in lies and still be welcomed,
while the truth — especially from a young, trembling voice —
can be discarded like it never mattered.
That moment didn’t just hurt —
it carved something out of me.
It taught me two things I wish I never had to learn:
That denying someone’s humanity is one of the worst things you can do to a person.
And that being human does not guarantee being treated human —
especially when someone decides you aren’t worth
the dignity that makes being alive sacred.
II. Cardinal instinct
And yet here I am — years later —
saying it aloud with no regrets:
I will die denying the humanity of bigots and their counterparts.
Because I know what it feels like to be denied.
A racist, anti-this-and-anti that, a man
whose name I never heard (and will not utter here either), face I never saw
until his counterparts decided his death meant enough to plaster it all over the internet, trolling rage bait for sympathy and likes.
A man I never listened to, never followed —
now lighting up my “For You” page
just because it’s political
and the algorithm knows those are some of the precious things I care about.
When nothing about him should be given the benefit of the doubt. When nothing he lived by was ever for me — or for you.
And now I’m supposed to shed my precious tears?
Raise a flag to half-mast
that my ancestors made possible
because he’s gone from flesh now?
No.
I’m not sad.
I won’t mourn.
I won’t use my freedom to honor no-count legacies.
I won’t grieve for lives consumed by hate —
where their families who benefited from it
smiled in pictures
and left bad seeds in their children.
And no — my perspective isn’t cruelty.
It’s clarity.
My Black-ass humanity is what it means
to be born inherently empathic
and still be microaggressively harmed
over and over and over again.
It’s survival.
It’s a cardinal instinct.
III. Loyalty is not redemption
One of my foster fathers was a racist bigot.
I went to his funeral out of loyalty.
I sat among his family —
a family I once loved,
a family I still love in complicated, unspoken ways.
I cried at the slideshow
where I was featured alongside him.
I cried when I hugged his daughter.
Not because they deserved my grief,
but because, once, we shared a bond —
toxic, yes —
but a bond nonetheless.
A hateful man with hints of kindness,
so committed to his politics
that his memorial table held
a MAGA hat and “Back the Blue” flag
like they were personal badges of honor.
He let me and my younger Black brother know exactly what he thought of people like us.
Told us we couldn’t date outside our race.
Said we would taint the white bloodline —
every chance he got.
And still, I showed up when he died.
Because that’s what loyalty taught me.
Because the child in me didn’t know
how to love halfway.
And still, I had nothing to say
when they opened the mic.
Just silence —
the most honest thing I could offer him.
And now I know better.
Now I refuse to pretend
that love or family
can redeem a racist bigot —
not when the damage is generational
and still happening.
That man didn’t just raise a family with an iron fist —
he raised harm.
And that harm lives on
in some of his children
and their spouses —
the ones who asked
why I stopped putting perms in my hair,
why I chose a Black college,
what I had against Paula Deen
when “that lady was so good to Black people.”
The ones who called me
an ungrateful foster child
who didn’t know the blessings
their Lord and Savior Jesus Christ had given me.
And no amount of memory
can make that holy.
IV. A cosmic reckoning
And yet, people say we all return to love in the end.
That when death comes, it brings grace, not judgment…
Every story I’ve ever heard
from someone who nearly died
ends the same way:
They say they felt an overwhelming sense of love.
That in the afterlife, they melt into pure light.
Pure grace.
Pure love.
No shame.
No blame.
Just love —
and a remembrance of why they journeyed here in the first place.
A love that covers regrets, forgives wrongs,
wraps them in light regardless of what they carried.
Maybe that’s true on the other side.
But that’s not the world we live in over here.
Over here,
hatred still builds empires.
Hatred moves freely.
Hatred raises children.
Hatred builds platforms
and gets them funded by the government.
And beautiful children — like I once was —
just trying to be loved —
have had to survive a cruelty
that still gets airtime.
Gets lied on.
Left bleeding.
Hurting.
So no —
I don’t want to “prayer warrior” or “Moodji Baba” my way out of this rage.
I don’t want to pretend I don’t hate the people
who hurt my people.
I don’t want to be told forgiveness
is the only path to healing.
I don’t want to be lectured about grace —
when Grace is my first name.
And all Grace ever needed was protection.
When hate is what activated this part of Grace in the first place.
V. Severance in the ethers — now that’s holy
And now that you are everywhere —
stitched into every wound,
every lie,
every echo you left behind,
woven into wind and earth and memory —
you do not get to rest.
Not until you’ve reckoned
for every seed of hatred you planted.
This isn’t just your burden to bear —
it’s your debt to repay.
And now that you are part of the universe —
dust, light, energy —
you finally know the true nature
of why you came here.
There is no way your mission in life
was to spend your days fueling hatred
instead of healing what needed love.
So you must carry that truth now.
I charge you —
and your ancestors —
and the ancestors of every racist bigot who ever lived:
Return to this planet what you’ve willfully destroyed.
Set in motion what you turned into stone and smoke.
You know damn well this reckoning is long overdue.
VI. Good bye, go get it right
Let love melt away our sins
and consume us in the afterlife.
But here and now,
I stay grounded in reality.
And to the ones
who use their lives to spread hateful venom,
to deny the humanity of people like me?
You are rotted from the inside.
No —
you die.
Good fuckin’ riddance.
If this piece spoke to you — or unsettled something in you — feel free to comment, share, or sit with it in silence. This is sacred work, but not polite work. That’s intentional.
— Ase’O
TheeAmazingGrace
GirlrillaVintage the Blog 