After my dad left, my mom couldn’t listen to love songs, especially sad ones. One that always got to her was “Silver Springs” by Fleetwood Mac, and for the longest time I couldn’t understand why. But I think I get it now.
It feels like the credits should be rolling at the end of a coming-of-age movie. I should have learned something important about myself. I should be ready to move on to another part of my life. Instead, I find myself asking the same question over and over again: Why am I still here?
White society is eager to brush their assumptions and arguments onto anything that vaguely smells like progress. Why? Because throughout history, they have desperately tried to hold onto the life they know — a life where they hold all the power.
What do you do when the person you love says that they don’t love you anymore? The girl who, by her own admission, said you treated her perfectly — that you made her so happy for a long time, but she just doesn’t have the same feeling now? You can’t really be mad, because nobody did anything wrong. You can’t fix anything because nothing is broken.
In the auditorium of one the local high schools, I stood next to my dad inside the poll. “I don’t care who wins,” he said, looking at me. “You pick.” Nine-year-old me stood there, wide-eyed, next to my dad. I get to pick? I get to vote?
I like being out at night. I like the way buildings look when they’re empty, and I like to see which windows are still lit up. I like lying in the middle of the sidewalk and listening to music. I like seeing which doors are still unlocked, and I like to look inside. I like who I am at night, when no one is around to see.
Founded in a deep irony, capitalism promotes the moral framework of autonomy while at the same time eroding the true freedom of the vast majority.
In the same way that we respond to pain in one part of the body as something to remedy immediately, we should see it as our priority to alleviate the pain of the many people and natural elements constituting our economic body. Our inability to do so is our tragedy.