My rage is consuming me. I think I’m okay with it. 

I’m not sure how more people aren’t openly swimming in a pool of rage too. I don’t mean the No Kings Day inflatable frog suit joy is resistance upwardly mobile white liberal kind of “rage.” I mean more of the pit of the empty stomach, gut lining seething with righteous fire at the thought of people simply carrying on with their lives as if there isn’t a world riddled with genocide, 43 million people cut off from access to food in the U.S., and innocent families being snatched off the streets. I see some people more upset that an email is late, or that a deadline was missed, or that their comforts have been questioned than they are about literally anything real. 

I have learned to let my rage guide me, creatively and otherwise. When I was studying Butoh more intensely, I was taught to “let the dragon out, but keep it on a leash.” My rage is leashed, okay? Chill out. My rage has a leash on it, guys. But that motherfucker is gnarly. 

I’m comforted by others who seem to understand rage as a tool for action. Friends feeding friends, organizing mutual aid events for those losing access to food, fundraisers for those impacted by genocide, and even good old fashioned not shutting the fuck up in polite company. These are usually working class artists, or people who have been in need at one point or another. 

I almost never see the people who have “made it,” or who have always had money give back in sustained or meaningful ways. “Philanthropy” reaches its limits when it starts to diverge into true wealth distribution. It is a performative gesture by the wealthy and those who aspire to be like them. It should not exist because this much disparity should not exist. Crumbs thrown by the ones who sustain and profit off of this disparity should not be applauded. It is not enough. 

I recommend Googling any non-profit (this includes museums and art spaces) and viewing their IRS Form 990. It will show you how much executive leadership makes compared to net assets. It’s another simple Google search to see how much they give back, how much employees at the lowest end of the ladder make, who their largest funders are. Rich people funnel money into non-profits, especially the arts, under the guise of “giving back,” when in reality, many of them are shaping the programming or point of view an institution can publicly hold. I recommend looking up board members too, honey. 

Some of the younger professionals I know are on track to becoming the next generation of board members and philanthropists. The people always on vacation, those always with something new and shiny, the ones I never see donating to the mutual aid causes I’ve championed :) The artists from money; the formerly poor, upwardly mobile entrepreneurs; the “I grew up around MUCH richer people” rich people who have no real concept of labor and need will one day in the near future help shape culture through their roles in the philanthropy machine if this trend maintains itself. The rage is leashed, but she is pulling. 

Arts and cultural literacy is lacking largely because most people don’t know how art is made (or the politics of larger artist studios) OR how cultural organizations are maintained (or how they decide what work is shared publicly). Many people still don’t understand the barriers an artist must face to survive, especially if that artist is experimental, self-taught, poor, has to work a full time “day job,” disabled, or outside of European artistic “norms”. They don’t know what kind of tax-havens institutions become for rich art collectors and how wealth begins to dictate what is made (marketable). But they do know that nice rich person gave money everybody clap, and that? Is just half of the enraging story.

I celebrated Day of the Dead this weekend. I was sick but I made the pozole recipe I have from my grandmother Nina. I soaked the dried chiles and let them rehydrate until the water turned a deep red in my glass bowl. As I removed their stems, their seeds poured out. I thought they looked like skulls in the bloody water. I thought of the dead, my dead and ours. 

My hands burned in the water, but it felt necessary. Like rage. I thought of the labor of everyone who has made this soup in my family, a dish with origins dating back to the Aztecs. I remembered the celebrations where this soup was shared in my youth, and I let the water burn me some more. I thought of everyone who came before me so that I could be this angry. I thought of everyone who toiled and worked so that I could have opinions on art.

My rage stayed with me, but so did my gratitude. I am sure that some of my ancestors would’ve had newsletters where they wrote about their anger. They sat with me while I wrote this one. This is for them. 

I am going to let my rage continue to guide me. I am going to continue asking you to tap in. I will remind myself that it is a tool, that there is work to do, and that maybe centuries ago an ancestor of mine was also kind of annoying in a righteous kind of way. ILY. 

Please consider supporting the following places and seeing the following things:

City Harvest: Supporting New Yorkers impacted by SNAP benefits being cut by the federal government. I made a $100 donation today, please consider matching me here.

Ministry: Reverend Joyce McDonald: This is an incredibly beautiful show at the Bronx Museum showcasing the work of self-taught sculptor Rev. Joyce McDonald. Joyce is a long-term HIV survivor and her work literally gives me goosebumps. Work is up through January. If you’re moved by this work, also consider donating to Visual AIDS which helps uplift artists often forgotten by the historical canon. You can give here.