How Can I Write?

How can I write when the world is on fire?

There is the non-stop noise of helicopters through my windows, how can I write?

My country is on fire, and the President is spreading gasoline, how can I write?

People are succumbing by the thousands to a pandemic that ravages communities in disproportionate, direct, and indirect ways, how can I write?

How did this happen?

We know how this happened, yet, can we understand why this happened? The madness leaves me deeply angry and upset. I think of Derek Chauvin and wonder why he felt entitled to kill another human being.

There were several officers present. Chauvin had already taken the power in the situation; once you have someone in handcuffs it’s clear who is in charge. Floyd was down, on his belly, another indication of dominance, then, as if it wasn’t crystal clear who was calling the shots, Chauvin placed his knee on the man’s neck, and kept it there long past the time Floyd fell unconscious. He killed him in an act that both demonstrated and surrendered power over his victim. 

Breaking point

Is this the breaking point? I’d like to think so, but forgive me my doubts. Sandy Hook should have been a breaking point in putting an end to gun violence. The murder of Trayvon Martin should have been a breaking point that ended “stand your ground” laws. Each time there was a murder of an unarmed black person, at the hands of the police, I thought it would be the breaking point. And I was always wrong. Then we elected an obviously racist and bigoted President who stokes hate and division. 

Writing about tuna

I have been working on a post about the many ways to use canned tuna. Who fucking cares about tuna? Writing about food, without writing about food insecurity seems petty and tone-deaf. I can barely bring myself to write at all. Everything I try to say seems small and irrelevant. 

I sit safely in my house with enough food and money to pay my bills. Though I’m less than a mile from the protests and looting in Philadelphia, I might as well be a thousand miles away. There are fires burning everywhere. I am terrified and heartbroken and ashamed of my country. I have the luxury of safety. Privilege is being able to turn off the news and watch Netflix. 

We have failed

This is the legacy of my generation. A generation built on striving and accumulating, mainly money, but power as well. OK, Boomer has become a catchall rejection of us baby boomers who reaped the rewards of our hard-working parents while destroying the world for those who come behind us. We are not leaving this place better than we found it. I didn’t personally bring us to this moment, but we are responsible. We have failed.

Where do we go from here?

What is next for us? Eventually, protesters will grow weary, looters will have done their damage, and people will go back to work. But when? There is no work to go back to, and for many, there won’t be for months. We cannot view the protests and riots as separate from the ravages COVID_19 is taking on us. We cannot look to our failing government and not blame this moment on their willful abdication of its leadership. 

It is all bound together. Years of listening to right-wing extremists worried about their guns and the perceived threat of immigrants, choosing to foster economic gains at the expense of the environment, police brutality, factory farming destroying our air and water, fracking, overfishing, human rights abuses, here and abroad… All of this culminating in the election of someone who seems at best, indifferent to the pain of the people he was elected to serve.

How can I write?

I have tried to write every day for the last week. I sit at my laptop unable to open it. This is not for lack of inspiration or ideas, but a reflection of my feelings of inadequacy and futility. What do my words matter? 

The question for me isn’t how can I write, but how can I write my small stories about food, family, and remembrance? What use is there to tell you about the fancy car my grandfather promised me when I was eight years old, while my fellow citizens are being murdered in my own country, the land of the free and the home of the brave?