It’s Black. Not Black on White. Not Black White. It’s Black.

Humor me and my vagueness. I do not want to go into specifics (I know, right? Usually it’s a TMI free for all with me.)

What Are Friends For?

I find myself in a situation I have never been in before. What seems to be a fight to the finish. Sure, I’ve gone to task with acquaintances, family and friends over differences of opinion. I’ve stood my ground. And I’ve caved on occasion, when I felt it wasn’t worth the time or effort to argue, or that it would weaken the relationship in the end. But I’ve always made good, or made amends and tried to be reasonable.

It’s not in question whether or not I am a bit quirky. Even my own mother says that when I say I am speechless, “that’s up for interpretation.” I have fought battles and won. I have fought battles and lost. I have gone, but rarely quietly.

Like everyone, I have hurt people before without intending to. I have apologized on occasion throughout life, whether I was right or wrong. Though feelings are not facts, they are very important. They help us sense danger, feel trust, accept love. And if I know that I have hurt someone’s feelings, it is more important to me to acknowledge that—after all, they are not my feelings and I can’t gauge the hurt, so I have to believe. But as I grow older, I have come to accept that life is not one emotion, one train of thought, one wish. It has many facets, as do people, and some facets are more visible, and viable, than others. I have feelings, too. And I, too, get tired of putting myself out there with full good faith and later spend my day pulling a knife out of my back. Sometimes, I feel exhausted from caring. Maybe I should live by a new mantra: “Prove it. Prove yourself.” But then I become like them.

Insert Knife Here.

I foolishly trusted someone I felt had my back. We were even buddies briefly, though I doubt she’d admit it now. We both saw and felt the black, but she dealt with it differently. Privately, she knew it was black. Publicly, she called it white. A coping mechanism is my best guess. Now I realize she was watching her own back all along and I am in a place of shame, the only one who will stand by my facts: “It’s black.” I’m labeled as a troublemaker and confined to a turncoat’s corner, chastised—with people pointing fingers at me and whispering behind my back. I believe in people too much. I believe they are innately good. I believe them when they make vague promises and dangle carrots in front of me. But when they tell me “This is white—and you should agree,” I not only stop believing them, I no longer trust them and begin to question their motives. I know what black looks like and feels like. It is dark and stressful and harried and thankless. It is not only a color, but a dark feeling which I can sense as surely as echolocation senses sustenance for a bat. Yet the group around me is saying, “It’s white, it’s white.” Does the color you see depend on the lens you look through? What emotions you bring to the table to start with? I don’t think so. I know it’s black. Gray at best.

Now I am a pariah to a small group of people. People I liked? Mostly, yes. People I would call friend? Potentially. In this group, it’s accepted for one person to have bad behavior, and everyone looks the other way and tries to steer clear of the direct gaze of that person. But I did a “foolish” thing. I said to this person, out of frustration and hurt, “It’s black dammit, why can’t you see the obvious?” And I told others in the group that I knew it was black, no matter what color they called it. Now I am treated by the group as though I never meant anything at all to them, as if I was a blip on their radar, a pest to be done with. As if my presence didn’t even matter at all.

You Can’t Deny The Obvious.

So, what’s the problem? The problem is that black and white are not a matter of opinion. They are fact and can be proven. Black is what the bad guy dresses in. And no one wants to play town sheriff. Though I have been removed from that situation, I am still dealing with lingering emotions of estrangement, humiliation, hurt, sorrow, anger, disbelief and frankly, shock. Sure, I could have said, “Yep, it’s white all right” and continued by friendship with this group. But it’s black.

Being kinda white trash zen, I have to ask myself the question: “Why can’t I comply? Why can’t I just shut my mouth and agree that it’s white?” Just because I’m saying it’s black and standing by that fact doesn’t mean I’m brave. Nor does it mean I’m a combatant. I’m no hero or angel for standing by my truth. The other day I had lunch with two girlfriends and tried to explain a story about how I had a devil on one shoulder telling me one thing, but when I started to talk about the other shoulder, it didn’t seem right to call the other one an angel. So I referred to it as “less devilish.” I am a fallible person, with rights and wrongs.

So, if I’m a fallible person, what is it in my DNA that will make me fight to the finish as if in a cockfight? I know I am stubborn, but I am diplomatic. I know am emotional, but I am caring. I know I am loud, but I listen. Where do I draw the proverbial line with holding on to this fight? Is this about being right? Or is it okay to stand up for something that just seems flat out wrong, even if my personal fight is over? I feel this need to lift the black for others in the group, but they don’t seem to want any help. They seem content to be worn down, and cope by avoiding the gaze.

What am I trying to prove? That I care? Or would not trying to help prove that I don’t care? And which is worse?

I refuse to betray my truth and say it’s white. It’s black.