On grief and why it's good
I’ve just set-up my away message for my work email. I pray for those still emailing me and I hope the message finds them well and with perspective and with grace. I wish I could bestow upon those in my professional sphere something profound re: liberation and justice, something loud and firm and without fear. But instead I will just let them know that I am not going to answer them for a while. And that is powerful too, I guess.
I will not see my family this Christmas. Not the blood one. I will spend it with my partner and his large family two hours north—the Catskills, not Upstate. I am grateful to know this distinction now, to know that winter is nothing to fear, to feel my pores sealed shut my the chill of the season. I am grateful to be surrounded by people when so often I wish to be small, in a ball, out of reach.
I spent last night lying in bed weeping. I hadn’t been able to cry for a while despite the deep grief I have been feeling these past 76 days as I watch a genocide in real time on my little phone while I go about my little tasks trying to make ends meet. I was grateful for the tears. I was grateful for the physical manifestation of the deep grief I feel. It was and is a reminder. It is a reminder that I am a human with a heart and a soul and the suffering of others—even and especially those I may never meet in the flesh—impacts me, as it should impact us all. We have to remember our humanity in all of this, as overly simple as that may sound. We have to remember it within us and around us, in each other, and in those before and to come. It is what has allowed us to be here, right now, and what will allow us and those who proceed us to do the same.
I grieve for the 20,000 innocent Palestinian people who have been indiscriminately murdered by Israel. I feel grief for the millions around the world pressured into silence for speaking out against these crimes. I also wept with joy and hope. The joy of knowing that there is, inspite of it all, humanity in this world. There is humanity in those who march and speak up and push back and encourage and show joy and resilience and capacity for something more sustainable than bloodshed and profit. Those on the ground in Gaza reminding us that they are like any one else: people who long for a future, for life, for a good night’s sleep, for their biggest stressor to be an away message in their work email.
I needed to grieve, to not compartmentalize the dissonance and gaslighting and push for productivity. To honor the reality that what we are all seeing and experiencing is too much. To acknowledge the beauty of fighting back despite this, that justice is a long game and we are in it for the long haul.
The light is returning today. This gives me hope. I hope to honor the complexities of being alive, especially in a world that pushes us to forget what we are capable of. There is so much more outside of the narrow and exploitative paradigms those in power want us to believe. And that excites me.
I am grateful for all of those who are in the streets right now. I am grateful for all of those—like me—who can’t always physically endure long marches, but who still find ways to push back against tyranny and injustice. I am grateful for a voice, for rocking boats, and learning how to do more and do less and remain human. I am grateful for those who remind me that grace is not a finite resource; compassion is renewable; tenacity is gay (good kind).
My body is exhausted. I want to honor that. My joints are inflamed just because they can be. I honor this too. I honor the need to make and create without the pressure of pleasing some gatekeeper or check writer. If this is naivety, then, mama, I am naive. And I HONOR THAT NAIVETY.
The world is crumbling and I am still making little jokes. It keeps me alive, I think. I think humor is one of the closest things we have to the divine. There is power in it, and it’s a tool of mine that I am proud of. It is why I create and why I don’t stop.
I hope these next few days of the year bring you grace. I hope you sleep well. I hope you feel loved and not alone and connected and inspired.
That’s all I got, babies.
Things to do:
-If you’re a queer artist, read and sign this open letter
-Call, fax, email your reps demanding they support HS Res 786 and an immediate ceasefire (at minimum)
-Check out the BDS movement and PACBI, especially if you are an artist or culture worker
-Google image search baby toucans
-Check out my show next month where I will be talking about three years of meme making and screaming my leftist politics. Lmk if ticket prices are prohibitive