Dear people who egged my house this weekend,
I didn’t appreciate coming out of my house Sunday morning to find that my house and car had been egged. I can’t imagine anyone who would. We can’t help but wonder if it was a focused egging, since the egg splatter was limited to our garage door and vehicle, and didn’t appear to have touched the garage or vehicle of the people who share a duplex with us.
I can’t decide whether I should read this as a microagression or not. I mean, no one else’s house was hit on our street. And it makes me wonder what we could have done to provoke such a thing. I mean, it’s not like we interact much with people in our neighborhood. Mostly, we keep to ourselves.
See, that’s the thing about being an interracial same-sex couple. Whenever something happens to us, I can’t help but wonder if it’s because we’re an interracial couple, or because we’re a same-sex couple or if it’s because of the intersection of those (two) identities.
We managed to clean the egg off the car before it started to eat at the paint. And we managed to get most of the egg off the garage door and the driveway so we won’t have to worry about bugs.
I would like to implore you to consider a simple thing for our next interaction. How about using your words? If we’re hurting you or offending you in some way (that is, in a way that changes the way you live), let us know. We’re happy to try and rectify the situation.
I think that’s all I have to say. Thanks.
the (book) supplier