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While Trump was pouting at the lack of public enthusiasm about his tank parade, I drove down Langston Boulevard from where it begins in Arlington just across the Potomac from the District of Columbia, all the way through the City of Falls Church into the Falls Church part of Fairfax County. The peaceful protestors lined the streets for more than seven miles.
Here’s my quickly assembled video–the soundtrack provided by my “music for the rebellion” Spotify playlist.
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Listening to the fire wondering what exactly makes the sounds. Do flames make noise? Is it the reaction of the wood? Would it sound different if something else were burning? Trying and failing not to think about the devastation of Los Angeles. Wondering why it can be hard to get a fire you’ve built to catch while houses not intended to be burned seem to ignite so easily.
I didn’t know until yesterday what caused the sudden smoke. Every year when I build this fire it will burn respectfully for hours until without warning the room fills with smoke and the alarm blares and I have to open the windows and the door. I’ve just learned that this happened because of a particular piece of wood I’d added, which was not completely dry inside. What I still don’t know is why the dampness leads to smoke, or why one piece of wood stacked on top of another would be harboring remnants of water and not the piece below it or next to it. Is there a way to look at the wood and know what’s inside? Maybe someone who has spent more time with wood could discern it.
There is so much more I don’t know about the fire. How does the configuration of the logs determine the shape of the conflagration? What role does the oxygen play? Why are the ashes white and gray instead of the color of the wood? Why do the remains of a log look black and then collapse into dust when you poke it? How is the grate unaffected? Or does it eventually break down? This one is broken in part, but still solid enough to hold up the firewood. What makes some things burn and not others–like the grate, the screen, the fireplace tools. If a house burns down, do those pieces made of iron survive? If that is true, why don’t we make more of our existences out of iron? Or would it all eventually melt if left too long alone with the flames?
I think of a friend I used to have who always built the fires when we all went together to a cabin in the mountains. He was proud of his Boy Scout roots and seemed to relish the responsibility. I never asked him how he did it and he never stopped to explain and I thought it was some mysterious formula shared among scouts and certain dads and servants from novels about English aristocrats. There’s such an appeal to reading those books although I can never read them without imagining how awkward it would be to have a cadre of people catering to your whims and doing things for you that the rest of us do for ourselves, like getting dressed, and making dinner, and answering the front door. I think of a young woman wearing an unnecessarily frilly uniform making the rounds of every fireplace in the unnecessarily massive mansion every cold, damp morning, and laying out the kindling and the firewood just so, in case a member of the unnecessarily wealthy family decided to entertain themselves or others in that particular room on that particular day. I think about the classes of people whose money and power were passed down from one generation to the next while so many more others worked to make a living, or struggled to find work, or struggled to make a living.
And this is not unlike today, although many of the details have changed and the props and costumes and sets have changed. We still have the absurdly affluent doing whatever it takes to become more affluent and keep the serving class in poverty and with no choice but to serve or starve, or to serve and starve anyway. For centuries the divide and disgust was undisguised. Then in recent decades, discrimination became more discreet. And now, the curtains have been pulled back, but not to reveal sunshine–instead only darkness. The self-appointed wizards shout without shame that they will not tolerate anyone who is different from them–anyone who is not a straight, white, rich, egotistical man with anachronistic ideas. They will not allow anyone else to flourish, to thrive, to own their worth, to revel in their uniqueness, because if the rest of us claim our power and feel free to share our ideas, their power over us will diminish. Their ideas will be challenged. Their selfishness and greed will no longer be unhindered. They are damning the principles that many of us hold up as the ideals of humanity–the importance of including all because everyone deserves to be included and everyone’s contributions are needed, the theoretically democratic notion that all of us are created equal–possessing inherent worth and dignity–and entitled to treatment as such, and the seemingly simple but historically abused concept that our differences–the endless variations in how we look and act and think and communicate and love and live and move in the world–are extraordinary and awe-inspiring and cause for celebration, not condemnation.
The four cardinals perched in the tree outside this window have gone now. Where, I have no idea. What signals the birds to stop their feeding and flitting is unknown to me. I saw those cardinals as my ancestors, keeping watch or imparting a message I couldn’t quite understand today. But they’ve flown, leaving me to turn my focus back to the fire, gratefully absorbing its warmth while I wonder what happens now.
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Dear World,
Apparently some other voters elected this unfathomably cruel, heartless, short-sighted, ignorant individual to the White House. It’s hard for me to understand why they did this. I voted for Kamala Harris.
Nevertheless, not only my family and friends and many people I know, but millions more who I don’t know are being or will soon be directly and egregiously harmed by the likely illegal actions of the administration in its first two weeks alone. People’s lives will be irrevocably changed. People are going to suffer. People are going to die. Not just liberals or immigrants or queer people, but millions of innocent people across the United States and around the world who are (in many cases unknowingly) being targeted by the dangerous and destructive policies this administration is implementing.
What’s happening is heartbreaking and gut-wrenching. We cannot let this man or his enablers break us. We cannot let them win. It is clear they intend to throw everything they possibly can in our faces until they beat us down. We have to stand tall, and when we fall, help each other up. There’s no panacea for this insipid sickness. There ARE a lot of humans out there committed to doing good in their communities and in the world. There ARE a million little things we can to do care for each other, support people who are doing the hard work, do what we can when we can, and step back and rest when we need to, because that’s just as important.
We are sailing in rough waters through a violent storm. Hold on. Hold on to each other. Cry when you need to cry. Laugh when you can laugh. Find ways to keep creating, building, sheltering, protecting, uplifting, singing, listening, learning, teaching, nurturing, giving, imagining, caring, loving. We need all the energy we can muster. Let your righteous indignation and your holy anger fuel your work. And remember to breathe. We’re going to need stamina for this fight. And snacks. Don’t give up.
If you need me, let me know. If I need you, I will do the same. We need each other to survive. And we will. Together.
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I would get lost on a path
I would get wet under a roof
I would be jolted awake by silence
No one else can come to the rescue
It’s just me vs. the jackhammers
the narcissists the black holes the ignorant
the sirens and the mass of melting neurons
My cup has been emptied
Every drop leaking out before
I can bring it to my lips
I know I am not the only casualty
The brilliant rainbow and the fluffy white clouds are littered with bodies
I am not special
But I once was
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I just ordered $100 worth of dairy-free meal replacement smoothies for my teenager, to pick up at Whole Foods tomorrow, because eating anything solid causes her severe stomach pain and she’s nauseated all the time. She came home early from school yesterday, with a COVID test in hand and instructions on how to take it with a certified COVID test instructor watching her on video. She has taken dozens of COVID tests already, and she knows how to do it, but I understand they want to make sure people are doing it right. Certified COVID test instructor Mhaxine (who must recite her script a hundred times a day) had us focus my phone’s camera on various codes on the box and on my ID and on the test results. Zoe doesn’t have COVID, which I already knew. But now you can’t be home sick from school or go to the clinic without testing. You can’t go back to school without emailing the negative test results to the school nurse and attendance office. Meanwhile, we are going back and forth with the pediatrician and the pediatric gastroenterologist and Zoe is scheduled to have an endoscopy in two weeks. She’s missed two days of crew–which you’re not supposed to miss any days of between February 21 and the end of May. Tomorrow I’m going to deliver an açaí bowl to her at lunchtime because it’s one of the only things she’s been able to eat over the past few days without feeling sick. When your kid is miserable, all your priorities shift.
At least she has beautiful nails. I took her with me to the nail salon last weekend and she somehow managed to get acrylic nails without me noticing until I had to pay the bill. Even if she can’t eat, she can at least admire her nails and enjoy the sound of tapping them on her phone.
I have a list on my desk of all the appointments I need to schedule: mammogram (oh I guess I need to see the gynecologist first, to get a referral), colonoscopy, dentist, kids’ dentist, my dermatologist, etc. All things I’ve been putting off or rescheduling since COVID. Hopefully I won’t have lumps or polyps or cavities or dangerous moles. I keep thinking I could just spend a day making appointments, but that would not be a very pleasant day. Since COVID seems to be never going away, I just need to suck it up.
Also tomorrow I am taking Niki to a camp that they don’t especially want to go to, even though it seems amazing, because they would rather stay home and play video games all day, which they think is awesome but I do not. Tomorrow is a parent-teacher conference day, so they don’t have school, but I still have to work. Someday we will have a house where I can have an office that is not in the same room as the tv and the xbox, but that day has not yet come. So off to camp they go. Last week I finally finished signing them up for summer camps and classes. This year they have fencing and archery, a camp where they drive to different parks and explore them and look for little creatures and give them names (at least that’s what they did at that camp last year), book illustration, art, and Minecraft camp (I consented to one week of this since the rest of the camps are active or artsy). Three of the weeks (book illustration and art) are just half day classes rather than full day camps because I don’t have to work those weeks and so Niki will not complain about having to go outside when it’s hot or eat lunch in a room that’s smelly. I would say my kids are spoiled, but truthfully I don’t like eating lunch outside on the ground when it’s hot or in a room that’s smelly, so I can’t blame them.
Oh, how could I forget Niki is also going to sleep away camp for the first time this summer. We all think they will love it. They’ve been to family camp at Camp Friendship twice already. They know the people, they know the place. They have not, however, slept away from us in quite a while. They can go to sleep if someone is at our house, but not if they’re at someone else’s house. And they still love to fall asleep intertwined with a parent. We are having faith that it will all work out when they are at camp. Zoe will be there too, but of course not in the cabin with them. We still have six months to prepare. Zoe was homesick at night for the first few years she went to camp, even though she loved it there. She says she eventually would fall asleep just because she was exhausted. I am constantly reminding myself that my kids are capable of things we haven’t seen them do yet, and they will be ok. Hopefully we’ll be ok too. Whenever Zoe is at camp I check the website compulsively for photos of her having fun, and race to the mailbox to look for letters. I remind myself that, during a rocky first grade year, Niki dreaded school–and then it ended because of COVID. Then we homeschooled for a year. And they did not especially want to go back to school for third grade because it was so much fun being home with me all day! And they never had to get dressed! And they played video games after they finished their work! It took a while for them to get used to school again (as it did for most kids I think, whether or not they were homeschooled or virtual schooled or hybrid schooled last year) and now they actually like school. They come home and talk about what they learned, and look forward to seeing their friends, and miss school when they have to stay home. I honestly wasn’t sure that would ever happen again, since it basically hadn’t happened since kindergarten. I had started to think kindergarten was some magical year that we would never experience again and school would be a battle forever. But it’s ok now.
And there is a nation of innocent people being attacked for no reason by an evil lunatic dictator. There are a lot of blue and yellow flags and lights and tributes. But I sure don’t know what to do, except wonder why our world is such a mess. The president stood up for LGBTQIA+ kids and mental health care in his State of the Union speech, but did not mention canceling student debt, or racial equity, or DC statehood. I did enjoy seeing two women–Kamala Harris and Nanci Pelosi–sitting behind him though, instead of two white guys. And maybe if the other old white guys don’t get in the way, Ketanji Brown Jackson will be confirmed to the Supreme Court and we’ll be just a little closer to having more justices who look like the people in our country and again, not all old white guys. No offense to the old white guys I love. They are not the ones I’m talking about.
In preparation for a meeting at work today I watched this video by Georgetown Law professor Kristin Henning, author of The Rage of Innocence: How America Criminalizes Black Youth. I have the book on my desk to start reading next week. As part of my new job with DC Action, I’m working with folks to reframe the conversation on youth and crime. Professor Henning describes in the video how Black young people are targeted and often arrested or harmed because they’re seen doing normal adolescent activities. DC Action and our partners are working to help District leaders, journalists, and others understand that there’s more to the story of a 14-year-old charged with carjacking than the need to lock him up for a long time or hold him accountable. Does it not occur to anyone that when 12-, 13-, and 14-year-olds are committing crimes like these, we need to look deeper? As I’ve written in op-eds and blog posts, the people who need to be accountable are the adults who are failing to provide meaningful out-of-school-time activities, mentoring, emotional support, job opportunities, and mental health care to young people–especially young Black people–who have suffered disproportionately through the pandemic. I see the struggles in my own kids, who have as much support and resources as they could possibly need. So when I read every day about people trying to ban books by and about Black and brown people and LGBTQIA+ people (don’t get me started on Texas Gov. Abbott who would rather have queer kids committing suicide than offer their families support) and school systems prohibiting teachers and students from discussing race or racism, or people saying antiracism is actually racism, I get enraged. No wonder I can’t sleep.
This, I think, is why people are obsessed with Wordle right now. It’s not always easy, but it’s definitely solvable. You can point to it (which is why so many people post their scores, although I do not) and say, “Hey, I did a thing! I accomplished something despite my existential angst and general feeling of despondence about our country and our world and all the personal and global problems with which I am grappling.” Or maybe that’s just why I play Wordle.
I haven’t been back to church in weeks, even though they’ve resumed in-person services. Going to church has always brought joy to me and been so important in my life, but the thought of going back again where everyone is masked and I don’t recognize even my friends and hugging is no longer a thing just makes me anxious and sad. I know wishing everything were back to “normal” is futile and there’s no such thing as normal anymore. But I haven’t yet arrived at a state of grace where I can embrace the constant change and dizzying feeling of flux. Maybe some days. But not today.
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I have heard that the cracks are where the light comes in
And in the places we were broken we are stronger
That’s what the poets say
But someone has to sweep up the pieces, to find every last one, and set to work with toothpicks and superglue
Because we the people are shattered, scattered, smashed to bits
According to the sages
our scars make us who we are
But to have a scar we must stop the bleeding and heal the wound.
For now the blood still flows
the wounds are open
the battle continues
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Ahmaud Arbery was chased down, shot, and killed by two white men because he was a black man jogging. The white men who killed him have not been charged, because they are white and because one of them is retired from the district attorney’s office and police force. If the skin color of the murderer and the victim were reversed, you know the assailants would be in jail right now and there would be a public outcry.
Armed white men have been storming state houses all over the country, threatening government workers and demanding that governors end stay at home orders and reopen the economy. If these “protesters” were black, they would be stopped their tracks—tear gassed, arrested, or shot. That’s what happens when people of color protest. But white men seem to get a free pass.
What’s both exhausting and terrifying about these events is that they are nothing new in our culture. While they are shocking and despicable, they are not surprising. I can only imagine how weary, how frustrated, how fearful and alone my friends of color feel, especially men of color and parents of men of color.
I know as a white ally, I need to do more.
You Ask a Lot of Questions 