Everyday I wake up to cover my body with threads of clothing created in poverty. By faces like mine, maybe only a different shade, usually far away from my home. Too afraid to know the real origins, I turn my white face to judge myself in the mirror. My worth in beauty is defined by more than just the color of my skin. I explain it daily by the clothes that I choose to wear, remaining blind to the massive inequalities represented within each seam, button, and thread. My daily act is one of oppression; there is no way around it. The clothes that I display speak loud and clear against the things that I believe in. My privilege prevails as each face that I encounter sits atop a coordination of clothes which represent the same. Trapped inside a cycle of denial, so that I may go through the day without the intense suffocation of guilt. The deadly whirlpool of internal thoughts, crashing together like waves of revelation, keeping me within the waters as a hypocrite. I can’t stand it anymore. Hundreds of corporations banking on the forced disadvantage of others. Ethnocentricity ingrained in the very things that I use to cover up my white skin, to hide my shame. How do I rectify any of this?
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