The Love Machine Broke: AKA Kanye Is My “Daddy”

I have talked about suffering in silence and being alone when it came to me struggling.

This past weekend, I had a major breakdown and deactivated social media accounts here and there and I honestly can say I was triggered into having a PTSD episode because of Mr. “Leave Your Ass for A White Girl” West.

What Kanye did is honestly no shocker to me and I was very confused as to why people on my timeline were freaking out.  Had they never met a Black man like this before?  Why is Ben Carson siding with 45 a hilarious thing, even though he’s a fucking brain surgeron, but Kanye siding with 45 is something that needs to be studied like a lost tribe in the Amazon somewhere.

I was reminded that people probably didn’t have a man like my father, who was probably part of the 11% of Black men who voted for 45, in their life.

My father, an Army Vet with Daddy Issues, too, is someone who came into money and squandered it by not getting help when he should have.  Instead of getting out of the military and staying the fuck by himself, he decided to get married, have kids to abuse (just like his daddy (who he hated, by the way)), cheat and get prostate cancer.

Kanye’s behavior is right in line with what I saw every day when my father addressed the white people he willing put his family in.

Behind closed doors, away from prying white eyes, the Black man who “didn’t want to be like his father but did it anyway” lived, telling his Black girl child to act a certain way for grown men while at the same time, abusing me for the rapes that I had endured for 3 years as a child, because I, a third to sixth grader, “should have known better” while still allowing my rapist near me.

In front of these white people, it was all smiles, putting my brother and I in their turned up faces to show what good little nigger children we are.

“They are so well behaved,” they would say, like we were fucking animals, and my father, like a fucking asshole, beamed with pride.

We weren’t and still aren’t rich, like Kanye.  If anything, my parents were just poor Black people who bought a house a neighborhood they couldn’t afford.  The one was too proud to admit they had fucked up, too intimated by her abusive husband to speak up.  The other one probably saw this an opportunity to get in good with Mr and Mrs Jones, updating the house little by little at the same time the Joneses were adding additions.

“I can be like y’all, too!” he says as he puffs out his chest.

People like him, like Kanye, will never be at fault for the children they willing had to baptism them in the darkness that is the Sunken Place.

And that’s how I was triggered.

The Sunken Place is more than hyperbole to the Black people that were born and raised in it.  To be molded into the model citizen by not just the white neighbors but your Black parents as well can do irreversible damage.  The self-hate is soaked through our skin the minute we were born in all-white hospitals.  Anti-blackness is taught the minute we step into all-white schools.  The Sunken Children are always the ones at fault for their own demise, but their fathers…

Kanye will “snap” out of this, “apologize” and everyone will love him again.

If they loved us as much as they claimed, they would take the responsibility for using the death of a loved one as a reason to why they hurt us.  Plenty of broke Black people with no parents out here not trying to tickle their own throat with white supremacy’s dick.  To say that the reason someone is “lashing out” in support of white supremacy due to death, to cancer, to mental illness, is lazy and I’m getting real sick of it.

Just admit to yourself that he loves white supremacy and work through it.

I’ve dropped my actual father for less.

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