It's All About History

I've often wondered why I’m so uncomfortable with the thought of claiming to be a victim of racism (or reverse racism as it is sometimes worded).  I’ve also always bristled at the thought of arguing that African Americans are no longer oppressed, that racism is over, and that we should all just move on.  I think I've touched on why these ideas bother me so much in my own private musings or  academic writings at one point or another, but it wasn't until I heard U.S. Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps say "It's all about history" (talking about his drive to take so many Olympic and World records) at the same time as I was reading SimpleJustice by Richard Kluger (an in-depth history of African-American's struggle for equality culminating in Brown v. Board of Education, the monumental Supreme Court case mandating school integration) that I was able to fully articulate my discomfort and (at times) outrage at such hypocritical claims of "racism" by people who look like me.

You see, racism isn't some simplistic notion of just reducing an individual to the colour of their skin and nothing more.  Racism involves the systematic and long-term oppression of an entire race by those in power.  The most obvious and clear example of this is the institution of slavery that dominated the political and economic landscape of this country, finally coming to a dramatic and oh-so-bloody clash at the Civil War.

Now, everyone (at least I hope) knows this part.  The part about black people in the South being reduced to chattel from before the very beginning of the Union up until the end of the Civil War.  But I've heard people argue, in one way or another, implicitly or explicitly, that, because the Civil War ended nearly one and a half centuries ago, black people should, essentially, "get over it" and "stop being so sensitive."

But I’ve never been able to wrap my mind around that logic or make that claim myself.  I think that I resisted making such arguments out of the simplistic mentality of not wanting to tell someone else how to feel, especially regarding a sensitive topic like racism, because I have never and will never be able to know what it’s like to be an African-American growing up, living, and working in America.

I don’t know what it’s like to live with the knowledge that the highest court in this land has said that people of my race are “beings of an inferior order, and altogether unfit to associate with the [dominant] race, either in social or political relations; and so far inferior that they had no rights that the [dominant race] man was bound to respect.” (Dred Scott v.Sanford, 1857).  It was blacks that were deemed property, and nothing more, by the United States Supreme Court.  It was blacks that the United States Constitution declared to be only three-fifths of a person, and that compromise was only made, blacks were only given even that much humanity, because Southern states wanted to be able to have more Representatives in the United States Congress.

I don’t know what it’s like to know that the same Court that declared African Americans less than human, even after the U.S. Constitution was amended by Congress and the States, reduced those some amendments and protections to something between blank verse and utter rubbish.  And the ex-Confederate States, though harshly scolded during Radical Reconstruction, were allowed to reshape the olive branch handed them by Congress and the Union into a whip to de facto re-enslave the black populace.

I could keep going.  I could go on and on (and on and on…) about all of the ways that the dominant white race in this country has chosen to keep African-Americans in a perpetual undercaste, both socially and politically.  But here is the crux of it: while the Civil War may have ended and thus killed the institution which we openly called slavery, black people could not even claim a prima facie case of political equality until the Civil Rights Movement came to a close less than 50 years ago.  And since then America has been devising and implementing a new racial undercaste scheme: the American mass imprisonment system. Few people recognize the criminal justice system as a tool or racism, and those who point it out are often ridiculed, especially by those on the political right.  But the statistics do not lie (and you can read my senior capstone if you want all of the evidence I have amassed): African Americans, while no more or less likely to commit a crime, are exponentially more likely to both end up in prison and stay in the grasp of the criminal justice system for the rest of their lives.

I cannot claim this history about my race.  I can try to shift the blame and claim that it was never my ancestors holding the whip, that my family members weren’t even in this country till my generation and they weren’t even on this continent until a couple generations ago, but it is still me and the members of my race who share in the privileges of being the perpetual dominant race in this country (since the hostile take-over of the continent by Europeans, that is).

I once did an exercise in a class where I listed both the privileges and struggles I face due to my demographic position in life.  While it was initially uncomfortable to begin verbally listing the number of privileges I benefit from as a white individual, I found the experience unbelievably eye-opening.  Here are just a few on a very long list:

1.     I can hail a cab or get on a bus at any time, day or night, without wondering whether or not the driver will slow down and stop for me.
2.     I can shop in nearly any variety of stores without being eyed by store associates wondering if I’m going to shoplift or steal items.
3.     I can drive my car nearly anywhere, any time without being worried that I will be suspected of doing illicit drugs.
4.     If I wanted to, I could even partake in illicit drugs with little fear of criminal sanctions, as, even in the extremely unlikely scenario that I were caught, I would simply get a slap on the wrist instead of a felony record and 5+ years behind bars.
5.     Despite growing up with an American work visa, then a green card, and, recently, a naturalization certificate, I never have to worry about carrying any of these papers with me, no matter which of the 50 states I travel to.
6.     I can attend prestigious universities or get good jobs without people making the untrue assumption that I was accepted or hired to fulfill some quota or otherwise “politically correct” agenda.
7.     I am positive that I will never be asked to speak on behalf of my entire race nor will any of my successes make me some “star” to represent my race.
8.     I can walk into nearly any store that sells magazines, dolls, posters, or books and find the aforementioned items featuring people of my own skin colour.
9.     I know that the way I dress and talk will never be seen as a testament to the overall poverty, illiteracy, or immorality of white people in this country.
10. When I learned about the history of this nation, I was told stories nearly entirely filled with filled with and championed by people of my own race.

Now I am incredibly used to and comfortable with writing blogs railing against the injustices I face as a women or otherwise decrying oppression of some form that I have faced in my own experience.  It’s a much different, more humbling, and challenging experience to try and write a blog post about a form of oppression that I have never experienced first-hand and that I really only have an academic understanding of. 

So I have a few things I want to clarify: first, I’m not writing this as some form of not-so-subtle jibe at my white peers.  It was just something I needed to get out there.  Second, I’m not writing this to appear as or in any way try and be some “courageous” and outspoken “champion” for black people.  That’s not my role in life.  Just as I wouldn’t want some man, no matter how well-intentioned, to try and put on the mantle of “champion” for all oppressed females, I don’t want to assume that unnecessary role for African-Americans.  One of the greatest forms of oppression is silencing the voices of the oppressed, and such outside “championship” can often have a silencing effect, intentionally or otherwise.  I will, however, always be an ally, just as I invite any and every well-intentioned and (preferably) duly-informed man to be an ally for women in their continual struggle for full equality.  Third, I think the biggest thing that I am continually learning on the topic of racism isn’t about history.  It’s about the present, and it’s about me. 

No matter how much I hate the notion that I have even the tiniest racist bone, cell, or even atom in my body, I live in a country where the unconscious privileges of white people are so omnipresent that it is something that I must continually fight.  I have to suppress the unconscious and deeply loathed instinct to get nervous when I see a group of young African-Americans rowdily walking towards me in a big city.  I have to consciously stop myself from suspecting that every tattooed African-American who walks in wearing street clothes to the Cook County Sheriff’s Office where I intern is either a convict or the family member of one.
Now, it’d be easy for me to try and justify some form of logic behind either one of the aforementioned statements, but the truth is that my logical reasoning applies no more greatly to those of the African-American race than to those of my own race.  My assumptions about those individuals have everything to do with their circumstances and nothing to do with the colour of their skin.  Again, circular reasoning could be used to somehow argue that those circumstances correlate to their skin colour, so there’s nothing wrong with making such assumptions because the assumptions correlate to their circumstances and the circumstances to the skin colour…and on and on…  But as I already stated: it’s circular reasoning.  And the fact of the matter remains that socio-economic standings contribute nearly entirely to these circumstances.

No one deserves to be judged by the colour of their skin alone, but whites do not live with the history and knowledge of longstanding and perpetual subjugation to those of other races.  I will not presume to be able to change the way that my entire race will react to this fact, but I can consciously choose to change the way I react.    And I will merely ask that the rest of us will contemplate these same thoughts, will search out the truth of history and of the present, and will never stop fighting to change the injustices that we live with every day.  It’s not easy and it is rarely readily apparent, but the world can continue to evolve and become a more equality- and justice-filled place.

And there is always hope.  This world will never be perfect and there will always be oppression, injustice and subjugation to contend with, but there is this: I am confident that there will come a day when injustice is eradicated, when personal appearances and circumstances play no part in the way we treat one another.  The day will come when we will be surrounded by the true and full majesty of the Shekinah glory, and on that day, nothing else will matter but our utter awe for Yahweh Himself and our complete and total love for Him and for everyone around us, all of us made in the image of Him whom we worship.  Each of us will be siblings, no matter our appearances, and we will forever stand together as such through Christ’s holy sacrifice. 

Oh, how I long for that day.

Clarifying Imperfection

I've always wanted this blog to be a place where I can speak entirely candidly, brutally honestly, and completely in the stream of the moment.  And that is what I have done.  But I think I'm starting to wonder if maybe at times I've spoken too plainly, been too blunt, and failed to explain things with enough clarity.

I'm a deeply scarred and broken person.  I don't have it all together (AND THAT'S OK!!!).  That very notion, the first time I heard it, out of the mouth of the amazing and dearly missed Carol Riebock, began me down a course that I remain on today.  This journey has involved switching so many painfully-held notions that made me believe that I had to act a certain way, constantly scrutinize my every thought and action in light of what everyone else thought.  I constantly had to worry, not just about how people viewed me, but often far more painfully, how they viewed my family in light of my actions.  Since I finally embraced the concept that it's ok to not be perfect, to make mistakes, and to not have it all together, I've held onto it with a brutally hard grip, constantly afraid that the moment I turn my attention back towards how I'm viewed by others, I will once again lose control and begin to spiral downward into the dark, into the blackness, into the nothingness and hopelessness that existed for me when I faked everything about myself in order to please those around me.

Will letting go of this fierce grip mean taking a step backward?  Will it mean losing parts of myself?  Will curbing my bluntness, repressing some of my honesty, and worrying about clarifying more fully mean putting a mask back over who I am, who I've become?

I don't know the answers to these questions.  I simply don't.  For more than four years now, I've defined a huge part of myself by the mantra, "It's o.k. to not have it all together."  I've broadcast my imperfections, and been perhaps far too willing to shine an imperfect light on the imperfections of others.  That's never been my intention.  But I don't know how to change back, and perhaps far more importantly, I don't think I want to.  I'm stuck at this impasse where I know that I can't keep hurting others by being overly blunt, too curt, and failing to fully explain myself, but at the same time, I know that I can't go back to living a life as someone other than myself.  I can't pretend to be perfect, and I most definitely don't want anyone else to think that I am.  And, to once again be blunt, I don't really want people to think that my family is perfect either.  But I don't want my vented frustrations about the inner-workings of my family life to cause undue concerns and problems.

All I know how to do at this point is to clarify, at least in person.  I'm not sure how much clarification is owed to this blog.  It was designed as a place where my most brutally honest, imperfect, and flawed thoughts could be processed and shared.  I never made any promises about the utter clarity or perfection of these thoughts.  Quite the opposite in fact.

I don't know what is owed in this forum.  What I do know is that my most recent blog post caused people that I love dearly to question and feel concern for my family.  That wasn't necessarily my intention.  So please, if you have questions, or want me to explain something, whether about this most recent post, one further in the past, or any of my future musings, please never hesitate to ask, whether in a comment in this forum or through FB,, email or my cell.

I'm not perfect.  I've never claimed to be.  Sometimes I get into a place where the only non-self-destructive method I know how to vent my frustrations is to put my faltering, imperfect, and incomplete thoughts on this blog.  But please never take my posts as a picture-perfect representation of my life, or even of my thoughts on my life, my family, or anything else.  This is a stream of conscious production, and when I'm in a place where I am frustrated, upset, and, frankly, not very stable, this forum may in fact reflect a quite distorted image of the truth.

I won't apologize for posting this inarticulate and perhaps innaccurate representation, because this was never supposed to be a novel or a news report.  Instead I will simply ask you to inquire for more clarification, and, above all, to take what I say, especially if it sounds frustrated, upset, and even angry, with a significant grain of salt.

I'm not perfect.  I will never claim to be.  So all I can do is attempt to clarify my imperfection.

Longing for More than Glimpses

I hate that the only way my family knows how to spend time together is by using gimmicks to keep us occupied. The very prospect of just sitting there and talking to each other is utterly unfathomable to them. We have to be playing a game or watching a movie or eating food (and then the moment the food is gone we all disperse). Mostly, we focus on playing games, but if there aren't enough people or we can't all agree on which card or board game to play or one of us simply doesnt want to play, we can't hang out. And because most of us are more or less competitive people, these card games inevitably lead to bickering, whining or arguments. In other words, not really the ideal way to hang out and talk. That's the reason why every once and a while I get utterly sick of playing games and refuse to participate. I always say that I utterly adore hanging out with my family. But what I really mean is that I like the idea of it. I long to hang out with my family beyond the confines of these gimmicks. I want to get to know them. I want them to get to know me. I've changed so much since before I left for college, which was the last time all of us were under the same roof, and I know that my brothers and parents have changed too. I long for more than the glimpses into these changes that these gimmicks offer. I wish we could just sit in the family room, no tv, no games, no obnoxiously planned-out conversations or confrontational discussions. Just talking. Like I spent the past three and a half years doing with my friends. Back in D.C. I can count on one hand the number of times my friends and I played games. And there were never any planned out discussions (outside the confines of bible studies and the like). Yes, there was food, but there was no rush to get up, no hurry to put the dishes away, wipe the table and then rush off in our separate directions. Instead, we simply enjoyed one another's company, asking questions, telling stories and jokes, and getting to genuinely know each other. Why is that very concept so foreign to my family? I cannot fathom why anyone would scoff at the idea of just sitting around and talking to the very people in your life to whom you claim to be closest. I just long for more than glimpses. I don't want any more gimmicks. I'm sick of them. It seems so simple: the desire to just hang out with one's family. But the truth is, the absence of any such desire or longing in my family has made me feel more depressed and long to self-injure more than anything else in this past year. So give me more than glimpses.

Questioning in the Shadow

As I sat in my room doing one last read-through of my senior capstone, my final paper in my undergraduate career, there was a young man across town, a 17 year old boy whose life should have just been starting, walking into his basement, picking up his father's hunting rifle and contemplating ending it all.

Austin Hills was a boy who I wouldn't have even recognized if he passed me on the street, and yet I know him. Not just just because his mom was my A.W.A.N.A. Olympic Games coach, his dad helped re-roof my house, and I shared countless picnics with him and dozens of other church members in his backyard.  I know him because four years ago, this same time of year, I wrestled with those very same thoughts, I struggled with that very same choice.

My weapon of choice was a bottle of pills and a razor blade.  And I struggled with it day in and day out the majority of my senior year of high school.  I took that blade to my wrist more times than I can count (although God healed all but three of my scars).  I stared at that bottle of narcotics hidden in my mother's nightstand (leftover from her ankle surgery), or that bottle of tylenol in plain view on the kitchen table, trying desperately to see a way out of the black hole beyond that knife and those bottles.

I remember it like it was yesterday.  That moment, sitting in sixth period, Concert Choir practice.  We were rehearsing a Latin song praising God for his magnificent mysteriousness.  That was the moment that I gave up on God.  I didn't believe that he could see me in this hole.  Or perhaps more accurately, I believed he saw, but just didn't care.  I knew and believed that he was all-knowing and all-powerful, so I couldn't for the life (or death) of me figure out why he wasn't doing anything to show me that he cared.

It was that same night, over at a friend's house, that I wrote a letter for my parents telling them about my struggle, and above all, insisting that I needed help.  Not help in the form of a hug and a prayer, thinking that that will make everything better, but professional help.

I didn't write that letter on my own.  In fact, I had no desire or intention to write that letter. It was by far the hardest thing that I have ever written in my life (and this coming from someone who just finished a 40 page Honors Capstone), and I wrote it practically kicking and screaming (though far more accurately, moaning and sobbing).  The single reason why I penned that letter was because my best friend sat me down, told me that I needed help, that she couldn't give it to me, and that I had to tell my parents so that they could get it for me.

Minutes after I heard the news about Austin Hills suicide, I texted my best friend, thanking her for forcing me to do the hardest thing in my life, insisting that I could not leave, I could not do a single thing else until I wrote that letter.

The entire reason I am writing all of this is because at 12 noon CST today, I will be attending the funeral of Austin Hills, and I know that one of the hardest things that I will be struggling with is asking God why He didn't put someone in Austin's life who would do that one specific thing (whatever it might have been) that would have kept Austin alive.

I know for a fact that the only reason that I am alive today is because of my best friend forcing me to write that letter.  A year and a half earlier, a barely would have said "hello" to her in the halls.  Yet God practically forced us to become friends, two people who couldn't be more dissimilar, somehow finding ourselves to be kindred spirits in some of the most desperate times in both of our lives.  A time in our lives when neither of us had any one else to turn to.  So God forced us together, and I am alive today because of it.

I am alive; I will officially be a college graduate one week from today; I will be graduating in 2015 from the Chicago-Kent College of Law with my Juris Doctor; and while I still struggle with undulating bouts of depression, because of God forcing my best friend into my life, I can now be entirely confident in the knowledge of every family member and friend who loves and cares for me and will continually fight to make sure I'm aware of everything I have to live for.  Furthermore, they will make sure that if (and when) I get to that incredibly low place of contemplating specific suicidal plans again, they will (once again) force me to get help.

So why, four years from now, won't Austin Hills be able to say all of those same things from the preceding paragraph about his life (with obvious variations in lifestyle and college/career choices)?  That same question that I wrestled with four years ago in that choir room still nags me today: Why, when God is so almighty and so omniscient, didn't he do something?!?

Now I'm not close enough to Austin or the Hills family to know the specifics of what was happening in his life, so all I can do tomorrow is love and pray for and show my support for Austin's family and friends.  I can't answer any of the inevitable questions that the aforementioned individuals will have.  I simply can't know.  Not just because I don't know those specifics.  But because some of those answer just can't be known (this side of the after-life, at least).  But that won't stop me or anyone else from asking them, so I can only beg of God, once again, to show Himself powerful, to show Himself wise.  To do something.

Five months ago, I got a new tattoo on my left thigh depicting the verse that inspires the title of this blog:

Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.  He will cover you with his feathers and under his wings you will find refuge.

The tattoo depicts a young woman (representing me) being sheltered from the world by a large, angelic figure (representing God) with magnificent and powerful wings.

This tattoo is private, just for me.  It serves as a constant reminder that no matter what this world or anything else can throw at me, I am always protected by God's powerful wingspan.  Even if I can't always see it or feel it, He is always there.

I share this personal information, about a tattoo that I don't really want to publicize, because in times of tragedy and grief, I'm not the only one that needs that reminder.  I needed to be told that in that choir room, and Austin needed to be told that in that basement.  Neither of us were, and though the outcomes turned out differently, I do know that everyone else touched by this tragedy (or any other) needs to be told that same promise.

God is ever-present, all-knowing, and all-powerful.  And while you may not always be able to feel it, he will always protect you and give your refuge from the storm.

How do they parents do this?

How do people bring children into such a hurt and broken world? We live in a world where between 1 in 3 and 1 in 4 women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime. And perhaps more shockingly, 1 in 6 men will be molested or sexually assaulted at some point in their lives. So often, young kids are not safe in their own homes. Even if the kids themselves are not getting abused, they witness oh so much. 90 percent of kids living in domestic violence situations know about the violence between their parents. The kids see mom and dad fighting. They catch the bruises and the angry looks and the shame. They feel the tension and internalize the pain.
Even if the household isn't physically or emotionally abusive, every home, every parent, every family member gives off signs and signals of their personal problems and troubles and hurts and pains. Parents can try their hardest, be incredibly patient and loving and attentive, yet every child still grows up with his/her own issues. They can have physical pains and ailments and emotional problems. They can misinterpret their parents' loving admonishions as demands for perfection (as in my case). Or even the youngest child, like my 3 year old nephew, can take a weeklong absence from a parent to mean an oncoming abandonment. My brother and sister-in-law are incredibly loving parents, yet their son is nearly constantly asking his daddy if he'll be here tomorrow. My heart broke for this little boy when I saw him feel compelled to climb into his parents' bed the first night they were home and fell asleep there just to be sure they they were staying.
We live in a world where violence is literally everywhere. Boys are taught that having the biggest "guns" (meaning both muscles and firearms) somehow makes them more manly.
Depression and sickness and disease are rampant. A congresswoman can no longer feel safe greeting constituents at a local grocery store for fear of being gunned down (like Gabby Giffords). Kids, no matter how young or old, cannot go to school without at least a cursory fear of gun violence as a result of schoolyard bullying or problems at home.
Even the most loving and seemingly non-violent families often use corporal punishment (i.e. physical violence), albeit well-intentioned (hopefully) as a form of "love.". This concept baffles me. How could physical violence and inflicting physical pain ever be loving? No matter how much the parent says, "Oh, it hurts me more than it hurts you" or "I'm only doing this because I love you so much," all the kid feels and knows is an association between physical violence and pain with "love."
If you truly love someone, how could you knowingly inflict pain on him/her? And with this in mind, I come back to the original question: "How could people choose to bring children into this world?".
This world, without fail, offers so much pain. If I ever had a child, I know that I would love him/her so much it brings me to tears. I cry because even the thought of these future children breaks my heart because I know that, at one point or another, their hearts (and bodies and minds) will be shattered and broken and bruised.
I could never do this to them.
And I have no clue how anyone else could either.

Missing out on Triumph

I only have a few weeks left in this city that I've come to love so much. And I have even less, if any time to actually enjoy it. I have three more weeks of classes, then finals, and then I'll be done with this crazy adventure known as an undergraduate education (more or less). This semester hasn't been anywhere near what I expected (to put it mildly).

As the year started, I promised myself and God and everyone around me that I was going to throw myself into this semester and make the most of every moment. I wanted to throw myself into Chi Alpha and really connect with this community that had been so good to me, even though I knew that would make it all the more difficult to leave. I wanted to do amazingly well academically, as my schedule held such promise with classes and responsibilities that I felt I could excel in. I wanted to savour every last moment at my church that I love so much. I wanted to embrace God and finally begin to wrestle with what my salvation means for my outward life.

But then so many things got in the way. I began to majorly struggle with depression. My many medical issues began to flare up and I got sicker than I've been in as long as I can remember.

I'd like to say that despite all of this I still made a gallant effort and stayed as connected, involved, and committed as possible. I'd like to say that I never doubted or wallowed in self pity or gave up.

I'd like to say all of these things. It'd be nice to think that after everything else that I've been through I was still able to hold on to the truth through all the hurt and pain and doubt. It'd be a nice story of triumph through trial and testing of faith.

But I could never claim to be that neat. My life has never been able to be wrapped in some nice little bow.

Instead of staying focused on the truth and the hope and prize that comes with it, I doubted, wallowed and failed so many times. And I gave up. So much more than once. I returned to old bad habits and picked up a few new ones. I hid myself from all but my closest friends and family, not feeling like I could face the community that God has placed me in in my current state of doubt and pain and dysfunction.

I like being the strong one, the one with so much faith and love and passion. I've never claimed to be perfect, but honestly, over the past three and half years, I've found such strength in that declaration. I've found freedom and opportunity to just be myself and discover what God's love and calling means within my life. I don't have it all together, and for me that was one of the strongest and most faith-filled things that I could admit.

Yet in my time of trial and pain, and at the very depths of my not having it all together, I hid from the world, and perhaps far more importantly, I hid from myself. I got lost in television and movies and my own self-doubt and self-loathing.

But throughout it all, through every falter and failing, through my every calculated choice or conscious omission to not rely on God's amazing love and power and strength, God has never left my side. Every time that I've broken down to the point of giving up, God has pulled me back to me feet and given me so much love and tenderness and space and love and rest. So much rest.

I've had it so wrong. I've been wallowing in my own muck and mire hoping that somehow the strength from my past and from my faith would pull me through. What I've failed to realize is that that strength was never my own to use. I've wanted to get through this by the power of myself.

Oh, how arrogantly ignorant I have been!!

This was never supposed to be a story of my own triumph through temptation and tests and trials. I can have no triumph on my own! Yeah, I can get aid from modern medicine and from distractions and stress-relievers, but none of these things can help me succeed. This semester should've been one of the greatest of my undergraduate career. But instead of relying on the strength of God which he has allowed to build up in me over the past three and half years, I've tried to rely on my own strength, arrogantly thinking that the two were somehow one and the same.

I'm going to try to let go and allow God to redeem what is left of this semester. But oh how little time we have left!

But even though the time frame is short, I have seen God's power. I know what He can do, so I'm not going to balk at the thought of His redemption being possible just because of the short time span.

Now to Him who is able to do far more abundantly beyond all that we ask or think, according to the power that works within us, to Him be the glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations forever and ever. Amen.

Pedestal

I'm broken and bruised and tattooed
And I'm not the girl you knew

So take me off your pedestal
'Cause I'm not some china doll
I won't live up to your standards
I won't feel guilt for failing

The girl you knew wasn't real
She was masked and hidden and confused
Underneath that mask was raw and broken and bruised

I'm still bruised and broken and tattooed
But this time I'm real
I'm a person with my own views
And I won't live up to yours

I smoke and I drink and I want to screw
I won't live up to your expectations
I won't abide by your views

I can't live on your pedestal
I refuse to change for your own views
I'm a real person now
Broken and bruised and tattooed

I might not live up to your views
But I have so much faith
I live by love and embrace the gray
My life isn't black and white
I don't always know where I stand
But I won't live up to your views
I'll find my own

So take me off your pedestal
'Cause I'm not the girl you knew
But find out who I am
I promise, she wants to know you

But first, there's one thing you must do
Take me off your pedestal
You'll find me broken and bruised and tattooed