We expel vitriol and we start choosing our candidates by process of elimination: I can only vote for my candidate because the other candidates made this mistake, made that mistake, etc. Also, I'm ignoring the mistakes my candidate made, or I'm rationalizing those mistakes as "not as harmful" to our government/humanity/etc.
I'm not blaming people for having this reaction, though. I think it's a response to post-traumatic stress. It is a fear-based response. We're so used to having to choose between bad and worse that we're still evaluating a pool full of awesome candidates--brilliant ideas and flaws and all--by purity tests instead of looking at all the ways they work well together. But we don't have to this time around. We have a bunch of good candidates, all of whom would bring something different to the stage, flaws and all.
Remember: government is a team sport. We're all in this together. Cue High School Musical theme.
I AM FROM HEAT. A place with sun, maybe too much, but it's sorely missed when you take it away. No room for chill, except briefly for a dip in a chlorinated pool. (I don't know what to do with this saltwater nonsense.)
I am from sweat, dried sweat layered beneath wet sweat, protected beneath pimples that make my face sting and make me feel less-than human, less-than beautiful, less-than desirable, but these are my greatest strength: if I do not worry about beauty, I can focus on love, and through that I can bring people close to me to ease my perpetual insecurity.
I am from Christmas tamales with people my parents hate and who also hate them back; I am from putting on a social face and giving all the expected answers--
Yes, I'm doing well in school;
Yes, I love Jesus;
Yes, I love you, too.
Even though I only really like the reading-stories part of school, and the teacher praise when I've done well; even though I think Jesus is a metaphor and I doubt what my church says; even though I see how you all smile on top of your lies.
This piece is brought to you by Libba Bray's workshop at SCBWI, "Digging for Truth," in which participants were encouraged to "name your secrets" and "honour them by acknowledging them." The piece is a 10-minute timed freewrite based on the prompt "Where I'm from."
Photo source: COPD Living
BROWN FEET. THE FEET ARE ALWAYS BROWN. Four years ago, and now, they're brown.
Children lay face-down on green camping mats, but no packages of Jet-Puffed or Honey Maid or Hershey's, classic American childhood staples, are nowhere in sight. Present instead are large sheets of Reynolds wrap, silver and shiny like a housewife's wedding ring. A woman in an advert grins overenthusiastically holding a huge box of Reynolds wrap, her hands cupping either end of the box like she's describing how big her husband's dick is.
I guarantee you a woman did not make that ad.
There's a webpage that's titled: WOMEN IN JOURNALISM NEWSPAPER MILESTONES. It's short. Thirteen women are listed between 1739 and 1976. The author of the article is named Bill.
In a different advert, in another decade, a boy stands in a yellow rain coat holding Reynolds wrap next to his dog. The boy is pleased. Of course he's pleased: rain boots protect his feet and he splashes in puddles with his beloved dog.
I call the woman "woman" and the boy "boy." Most of the people who read this will assume the invisible, default word in front of those words:
We don't have to specify.
WHO ELSE HAS BEEN TOLD to be more "professional" before? I've been told to not swear as much with people, because it's not as "professional," and while I agree that not everyone is open to casual swearing and that it might be a good idea to make sure people are comfortable with your swearing before dropping f-bombs on them like it's hot, I am resistant to the idea that swearing is "unprofessional."
It seems that people's ideas about what is "professional" are quite conservative, really. It's okay to mention Christmas, or throw a Christmas party in the workplace--as long as you call it a "holiday" party--and have Santa and reindeer everywhere--but a Hanukkah party and the display of a menorah at said party is "too religious." Queer people are "accepted" in the workplace, but if you want to talk about your polyamorous relationship, "you don't need to share everything" even though everyone else talks about their wives and husbands on a regular basis. Employees with mental disabilities are protected by the American Disabilities Act (ADA), but if you talk about your medication in the workplace, you shouldn't because people might think you're tripping on Vicodin 24/7.
To this I politely ask: what the hell, people?
I NEVER FELT MEXICAN. NOT REALLY.
I've written several times about growing up as a privileged half-Latina, white-passing American, and I cannot stress how embarrassing it was to never really meet anyone else going through this. And isolating. Every time I met another Latinx person, I felt like a fraud. I even considered joining my school's Amigas Unidas organization, or the Sigma Lambda Gamma chapter, but I felt "too white" to join. I kept feeling like I had to prove that I knew Spanish, kept apologizing for my grammar. I pretended like I understood the slang jokes that everyone else made.
I was lying.
I am a proud Latina; I'm proud of the legacy that my Mexican grandparents have set, the stories of perseverance that they told about growing up prior to Cesar Chavez's labour movement. I grew up as a young Mexican girl in Fresno, but my story was far from that of Gary Soto's--I lived in the suburbs, not the barrio; I went to private, magnet, and charter schools and had an attentive mother who nagged me about my grades; there was never any question about whether I was going to college or not, and I even thought of Fresno State as a fallback school rather than something to aspire to*.
And to make matters worse: I was never racially profiled.
This sounds like a good thing, doesn't it? And it is, to an extent. But it's distressing in that my brother and I have drastically different experiences with this, despite having the same racial blood makeup.
T/W: Graphic description of human miscarriage.
Automatic toilets are the bane of my everyday existence. They’re supposed to be eco-friendly, okay. So why do they flush while I’m squatted over the toilet, trying to wipe myself with some dignity? (I suppose my first mistake was trying to wipe with dignity; no one can achieve the impossible.) I end up double-flushing, wasting the water I would have otherwise saved. It flushes when I’m not ready, achieving an impressive portfolio of misdemeanors every year. The most common it when it completely catches me off-guard when I’ve just put the seat cover down and haven’t even unbuttoned my pants yet.
The least common was when it swallowed my baby.
WE GO WAY BACK.
How many relationships have you recorded over time? How many friendships continued, romances kindled, feelings hurt and rejuvenated and cycling all over again? How many sexbots have I encountered through you when my password was hacked? How often have I spent clicking open your vertical portal, windows popping open as the distinctive bloo-do-doop invites me to a new surprise?
Late nights in front of the glow of my computer screen were the norm throughout high school, undergrad, grad school. Even now, in the "real world," I cling on to the bit of nostalgia that you offer--that same, unchanging sound that was there when I met my best friends, when I flirted with my first boyfriend, when I had my first kiss. I spent countless two-AMs with you, hiding in my bed and pretending to write papers while I was not-so-secretly hanging out with my friends.
This post was written by my fellow writer friend Hank Whitson. His words are re-published here with his permission.
BRIANNA JOHNSON MARCHES AGAINST THE PEOPLE who've cast aside their white sheets and wear their hate with pride. They yearn for a hierarchy of melanin that places her at the bottom of the food chain. She's marched before, and she'll march again. What else can she do? She's tried chanting louder. She tried taking the blows, running away, and fighting back. Those marching with her have picked her up, shielded her body, and fought alongside her. Together they've kindled the faith that love will eventually triumph, fostered the hope that history's long arc will bend toward justice in their lifetime. She can't help but doubt it though. She can't help but wonder what it will take for the turning point to come, and what else waits between now and then.
PART OF THIS COMPLETE BREAKFAST
Blog not recommended for sober consumption.