I stand on the shoulders of those who embodied this most; I can only hope my actions align with my innermost heart, the blood of my ancestors, those whose minds may have been filled with doubt but kept walking anyway, those whose names are found on the train manifests to Auschwitz, those who braided the bread and lit the candles and buried the dead and praised the living.
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I am feeling this so acutely tonight, the utter pain in the world, and also the love, the deep love for humanity and the deep repulsion from humanity, too — how can these both be true?
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These are just a few of the many reasons a “black out” to make a statement is so problematic….
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But here’s the thing: If I am to move my writing more into a political sphere — a periphery I’ve circled and danced inside of for as long as I’ve been writing — I have an obligation to do so in a way that calls attention not to myself but to those who really have something at stake.
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If I had a lawn, I’d say come set up a tent
city with booths and creative currency
and herbalists and midwives and women
in overalls who know how to build things.
I am a bundle of fear and rage and love and confusion. I went for a run this morning, and I looked at each person’s face I passed by. A delivery guy. An older gentleman walking his dog. A woman with a briefcase waiting for the light. A man smoking a cigarette on a bench. A child watching in awe as the firetruck backed out of the station, holding his grandfather’s hand. I ached.
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