And here is what I have to say today

I miss writing. I miss expressing. I miss having time to read other’s expressions. In the few moments I steal for myself, guiltily shaming myself over complaining about my work load while grasping for moments to read blogs, or gasp, even take these minutes (it’s currently 10:33) to write on my own, I am never satisfied. I’m too busy thinking about the procards, unorganized and unedited; the vouchers, unfinished and unclear; the t-shirts, unpaid and unethical… the list continues and yet still, here I am, searching for an expression of something going on within me. Searching among other’s words and other shared feelings to find that expression that gets it right. That somehow makes sense of the helplessness of Sean Bell and racism and murder and death… and it was on his wedding day. Finding the expression that can show the utter sadness we can all get to is just put correctly that this man was a real man, with a real life, in love, probably nervous and at least a little drunk the night before he believed enough, at least for that moment, to promise his life and love to another, for as long as each of them could manage. How do I remember this man, murdered on his wedding day—the same way Amadou Diallo was murdered, violently, unimaginable masses of bullets ripping his body—how do I feel the pain, how do I feel the outrage and still continue in my day?

How do I not take it personally, then not hate myself for it, that at least he had the option to get married? How do I not remember joking with my gay male friend at breakfast about how we’ll get married for the tax breaks(because humor is always better than sadness, right) only to hear the privileged speak of his love of marriage? So unapologetically. How do I not think of Sean and Amadou’s similar murders without thinking of Matthew Shepard and Lawrence King?

How do I write these words and these thoughts without sounding like I’m comparing racism and homophobia? There’s not a hierarchy on oppression, there’s just a lot of it. How do I forgive myself for needing to look up Amadou Diallo’s name? Shouldn’t I know it? This atrocity that’s taken place, why don’t I remember his name? Not even the Le Tigre song. How do we speak of any of these unspeakable acts and still go about our days, and still stop in mere moments to go back to procards and vouchers and smiling at those in front of me?

It’s the same problem over and over again. Then it’s a different problem over and over again. How do we not get bogged down in the defeat of our rights every day? How do we talk about all of our inevitable body image issues without hating our bodies? What’s discussing emotions, what’s complaining, and what’s making any sort of difference? How do I as a white woman talk about race and racism in any sort of fair, honest or just way? How do I interact with the world talking about Mother’s Day when I hate my mom and she hates me? How do we make the personal political? How do we find peace in our own lives before we demand peace in war torn countries? How do I respond to my teacher friend teaching her 8th graders about the holocaust and that it simply tires her out? I’m tired too. How do we remember the good that exists with such a high prevalence of bad? What happens when I’m most often the cheerleader and I’m having a day where I forget how to cheer, how to see the light, how to know there’s good in the world and that what we’re all working towards makes a difference?

I could do it. Here, simply for the sake of it, for the principle, out of sheer habit alone; I could find the positive, I could list off sunshine and rainbows and soccer balls and kittens and revolutions and hate crime legislation passing and GCB being renamed Strickland and at least as many victories for the defeats. I could.

16 minutes later. I’m going back to procards.