I don’t know that the word sad covers it.
Nope. Doesn’t even touch it.
This is not political dissapointment. This is abject fear.
A part of me died this week.
I am not shocked
I am stricken
Desperate to hold my children and lock the doors
Should I stop writing?
Should I painting?
Should I pull my professional social media accounts and change my Hebrew name?
And then guilt.
Guilt that I could do these things is rich with my privilege as a white person.
I don’t need a safety pin.
I need to know that my kid is safe at school
And on the bus
And on the playground
I need to know that my body is my own
That there is still a place for me in this economy
I need to know that my Trans family and friends still have the right to walk down the street.
That my family and friends of color are safe and sound and have the same rights.
All of this rampant fear overwhelms and threatens to pull me under.
And through it all, my life long mantras keep chanting along.
My voice is important
I am enough
Your voice is important
You are enough
I’ve had the ever loving shit kicked out of me before. Desolation and regeneration are not new concepts.
I pulled through by keeping my head down and my feet moving.
That doesn’t keep me from all of this.
That doesn’t touch the bigotry dumping into our water supply.
Yes, keep my feet moving
Keeping my head down only increases the risk of me falling on my ass.
I have a voice for a reason.
I write because it is in me to do so
I stand witness to what is happening and cannot stay silent.