God Bless the Vandal: 5 Truths from the Edges of a World I Refuse to Respect

A declaration of war on stolen legacy, curated trauma, and institutional rot

I was not made for peace with this world.

I was not raised to praise the polished lie or to negotiate with a legacy of theft dressed up as tradition.

I was born with teeth and memory and rage in my blood—and I’ve come to understand this as holy. Not a defect. Not a discipline problem. Not a sign that I need to do more inner child work or unlearn my reactivity. But a sign that I still know what’s real. That I haven’t been fully colonized.

Because I do not care to be palatable to the systems that engineered my destruction.

Because I will not perform gratitude for access to a world built on theft.

Because I see the trap in being liked, let alone accepted.

Some of us were born inside the mouth of the machine, and instead of praying not to be eaten, we sharpened our teeth.

We exist in eternal hostility to the illusions that built this world.

We spit in the eye of colonial hospitality, that bitter smile that says “you’re lucky we let you live to work another day.”

We do not want a seat at your table—we want the blueprints burned, the architects named, and the soil returned.

We are taught to chase belonging inside systems that will never recognize us as human.

We are taught that legitimacy only comes through proximity to whiteness, maleness, money, and obedience.

But legitimacy is not liberation. And it will never be love.

There are people who make peace with the world because they believe the world is fundamentally fair. Because it works for them.

This is not for them.

This is for the ones who look at institutions and only see teeth. Who walk into workplaces and feel the ghosts. Who flinch at flags and think of fire. Who know deep in their bones that any world that asks you to be respectable before it treats you as human is not a world that deserves your allegiance.

This is not a call for civility.

It’s a call for sacred hostility.

Not to each other, but to the poisoned waters we were told to drink from.

And if you want to heal, really heal—not the curated kind, not the yoga-in-a-dystopia kind—

then you need to start by asking:

Who benefits from me being quiet? Who suffers when I comply?

Because here is a truth many are not ready for:

If you want to heal in a sick world, you have to be willing to be misread.

You have to be willing to be too much, too loud, too angry, too sensitive, too late.

You will have to say things that rupture your timeline, that break the 4th wall.

You will have to break character in the middle of your performance, learn the first and last name of elephant in the room and memorize it.

You will have to choose integrity over innocence—especially your own.

And you will have to change your relationship to the word criminal.

In a world where survival is criminalized—where feeding your children without papers is a felony, where defending yourself against assault is “disorderly,” where breathing while Black is suspicious, then to be “good” is often to be complicit.

This system was built to punish those who try to live in it without surrendering to it.

So stop treating criminality as a moral failure—start recognizing it as a side effect of refusing to disappear.

If a world built on genocide calls you dangerous, let it.

If the empire marks you a threat, that might just mean you’re doing something right.

There is no reforming rot.

There is no reconciling with supremacy.

There is only remembering. Returning. Refusing.

This is for the ones who look at institutions and only see teeth. Who walk into workplaces and feel the ghosts. Who flinch at flags and think of fire. Who know deep in their bones that any world that asks you to be respectable before it treats you as human is not a world that deserves your allegiance.

Because when you live inside the wreckage, you don’t mistake the architecture for safety—you recognize it as evidence.

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1. The World Was Built on a Crime Scene

Colonialism was not clever. It was not civilized. It was not destiny.

It was arson and fraud and mass disappearance.

And then it rewrote the story in its own image, named the theft progress, and demanded our gratitude.

What we call “civil society” is a mausoleum of coerced labor and vanished languages.

What we call “Western values” is a euphemism for imperial domination.

So no, I will not be neutral here. I will not “honor both sides.” I will not make peace with a culture that has only ever wanted me docile and dying.

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2. Antagonism Is a Spiritual Practice

I am not interested in being well-behaved.

I am interested in being free.

And if those things are in conflict—and they almost always are—then I will choose hostility. I will choose disruption. I will choose the cold, clear refusal to smile while I’m being erased.

Respectability is a cage.

Professionalism is a leash.

Politeness is the cover charge you pay for proximity to stolen power.

I want none of it. I want out.

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3. Hostility Is a Form of Integrity

There is something pure in the rage of the exploited. Something beautiful in the refusal to perform dignity for those who only can only see it in mirrors that reflect themselves.

I have no interest in polishing my proximity to harm until it sparkles.

No interest in being “the first” if it means being the only one allowed through the door.

No interest in being palatable, presentable, or pretty while the world starves and burns and prays to the gods of white capital for salvation.

I want to be indigestible to empire. I want my art to leave bruises. I want my presence to unsettle the comfortable. I want my love to be a threat to every system that teaches us love must be earned through suffering.

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4. I Do Not Want a Seat at the Table. I Want the Table Flipped and the People Fed Instead.

I am not here to integrate into a structure that feeds on our disconnection.

I am not here to beg for inclusion in industries built on exclusion.

I am not here to perform humility for institutions that have never been held accountable for their violence.

I want a different world.

I don’t want your ladder—I want the roof ripped off. I want the sky back. I want land returned and stolen names restored and healing that doesn’t require a grant proposal.

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5. The Only Thing Scarier Than Anger Is Wanting More

White supremacy trained us to fear our anger.

Capitalism trained us to fear our desire.

Religion trained us to fear our bodies.

Academia trained us to fear being wrong.

And yet we survive. And want. And burn. And reach. And scream. And make.

And I believe in that hunger.

I believe in the holy act of wanting more in a world that told us we were lucky to get scraps.

I want restoration. I want stolen time back. I want reparations. I want the church turned into a community kitchen. I want the boardroom turned into a garden. I want every “exclusive” space flooded with the sound of crying babies, drumming hands, and uncensored laughter.

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6. To Live Is to Vandalize the Blueprint

If the world was built on your erasure, then every act of visibility is a rebellion.

If the system thrives on your shame, then your joy is a hammer.

If whiteness defines itself through your exclusion, then your community is an act of war.

We were not meant to survive this. And yet here we are. Dreaming in dialect. Dancing in bodies that weren’t supposed to make it. Raising children who know where they come from. Speaking names the empire tried to unwrite. Praying in stolen lands and still asking for rain.

You don’t need to fix yourself.

You need to burn the blueprint they gave you and build something your grandmother would recognize as beautiful.

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Final Words: For the Ones Who Are Done Asking

This is not a call for kindness. This is a call for clarity.

Be rude. Be loud. Be unapologetic. Be dangerous to the structure.

Let the hinges of every cage rattle with the force of your rebellion. Let your relationships be sanctuaries.

Let your existence be so vibrant, so disruptive, so ungovernable that someone somewhere has to stop and ask:

Who taught you how to live like that?

And let the answer be simple:

No one taught me.

I remembered.

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If this piece spoke to something in you—if my writing has ever helped you feel seen, softened, or strengthened—I want to gently ask for your support.

I’ve just begun my writing sabbatical in Sicily, where I’m tending to my health, my creativity, and the slow work of writing my book. I’ll be sharing more pieces like this, more glimpses into the journey, and more ways I’m learning to keep the fire lit—even in uncertain times.

Direct support is something I’m still learning how to ask for, and I’m practicing saying thank you more often, more fully. Your support helps me create spaciousness to write, rest, and keep building this work with care.

If you feel moved to contribute, here are the ways to do that:

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Thank you for being here. Thank you for holding space. Thank you for helping me