Disabled Black Lives Matter
I felt the need to write about my experience with the BLM movement recently. Maybe I’m bored, maybe I’m manic, maybe it’s Maybelline. I grew up in the quite literal ass crack of the Idaho/Oregon border. Tumbleweeds and potatoes aplenty. I can remember having one African American friend there my entire 20 years of existence. I, much like my very sheltered white kin, did not have to experience racism on a first hand basis. What I can tell you about is my first time hearing the “N word,” that has recently been playing over and over in my head. I was 15. I was always that token white girl friend who instead of listening to Taylor Swift and Tim McGraw, I much preferred Three Six Mafia and Juicy J. At this time in my life I had not one single African American friend or knew anyone of color outside of my Hispanic friends. So while standing at lunch with a group of friends one day, I remember talking with my girlfriends about Trey Songz. This was when a group of white males that I considered