It Is What It Is — And That Should Be Okay to Say

A meditation on truth and the tides of conversation

Life doesn’t come with a fairness guarantee — not even a limited warranty, and believe me, I checked. The rules were written long before I showed up, and for reasons no one can explain, I’m expected to nod politely and play along. Fine. I can play. Just don’t ask me to pretend I’m not noticing the score.

When I was young and looking into college, my counselor didn’t waste time with niceties. He said there were a few programs I might qualify for — if I were Black. Since I wasn’t, that was that. No drama, no righteous indignation, no running off to write an impassioned essay about systemic injustice (irony noted). I just thought, Well, that’s useful information, and moved on to Plan B. It didn’t make me angry — it made me resourceful. Apparently, adaptability is the consolation prize for not fitting the criteria.

Now, where I grew up, diversity wasn’t exactly thriving. You could count the number of non-white students on one hand and still have fingers left for holding your lunch money. So when my counselor mentioned programs for students of color, I was honestly just surprised. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that opportunity could be color-coded. That was my first real clue that the world sorts people in ways that make absolutely no sense — but there it was.

Fast-forward a few decades, and my grandson — who has darker skin than I do — might qualify for the very help I couldn’t get. A friend brought it up, and I said his color might help.

Just that. Simple statement of fact. The kind that used to pass without incident before we all decided oxygen might be offensive. She looked at me like I’d just kicked a puppy. A patriotic puppy, no less.

I hadn’t said anything cruel. I hadn’t said anything at all, really — just reality, minus the frills. But these days, even the truth needs armor and a permission slip.

I don’t blame Black people for how the system works. They didn’t design it. The whole thing was built by people trying to repair history, which, let’s be honest, is like trying to reassemble a soufflé after it’s hit the floor. You can’t fix the past; you can only patch it and hope it doesn’t leak too badly. Still, no system’s perfect. You figure it out. You improvise. You get on with things.

What bothers me most isn’t the system itself — it’s the disconnect. Some people glide through life on invisible conveyor belts and never seem to notice that others are climbing stairs in roller skates. It’s not bitterness; it’s observation. Pretending everyone starts from the same square isn’t kindness — it’s delusion.

We’ve forgotten how to talk — really talk. We whisper, we posture, we translate our words mid-sentence for fear of offending someone who isn’t even in the room. But if we can’t even say what is, how are we supposed to talk about what could be better? Step one: learn to talk again.

Author’s Note

This essay began as a personal reflection — a quiet attempt to make sense of why plain facts have become so hard to say out loud. The final version took shape after a long back-and-forth with ChatGPT — reimagined in the lively, irreverent voice of Jodi Taylor’s Chronicles of St Mary’s, though with an American twist.