The first came easily -- for Mani's health to be 100% restored. The others, though, I thought long and hard about as I drove south through farmland and evening light.
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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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Then I stand in my driveway in the early morning, and the beauty of the flowering trees and bird songs makes me want to weep, for the gift of these and the stark, impossible disparities.
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Action, emotion, intellect, spirit. To live predominantly in only one of these worlds is to miss so much information.
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We have to keep expecting more of ourselves. This means questioning our questions, and, more importantly, stepping out of the “I” mentality that keeps our focus inward rather than on the real stakes: People’s lives and systems designed to denigrate and destroy individual dignity and entire communities.
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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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It’s not pretty to look at the parts of ourselves that exemplify the things we say we’re against — entitlement, white privilege, intellectual snobbery. But to not look at these, to choose to stay cloistered, sheltered, more “successful” in ways society recognizes and values, and what we may have been taught would be “safer,” is inexcusable for anyone who claims to care about justice and humanity.
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Take some time soon to write about anger. Set a timer for 10 minutes and make a fast and furious list (see what I did there?) of associations you have with anger. You could simply start with “anger = …” and go from there, returning to this equation if you get stuck.
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Yet you, on an ordinary day, telling the truth about your life and being willing to get more and more honest and real? That is strong, my friends. And it’s just the beginning.
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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’m here to remind myself — and maybe you reading — that what I’m doing here counts. It will change and grow and deepen and evolve, yes, but it is also, already, real. The tyranny of always getting somewhere else? It’s a racket.
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Yes, there has been social and economic progress. But you don’t have to look hard or far to see the cracks in this perspective. It’s a distinctly white perspective, and one that rests on tremendous privilege.
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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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That was a Wednesday. Four days later, I was telling my husband of nearly eleven years that I was gay. And yes, I was sure.
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