This week’s question comes to us from Cameron White:

How do you deal with the incomprehensible vastness of space?

Find your people.

When I was in first grade, the good sister teaching religion class decided it was a good idea to teach a group of malleable six year-olds about heaven and hell. But before she could get there, she had to teach a group of malleable six year-olds about death. Which, to be fair, some of us already had experience with through a combination of grandparents and/or pets. We were kind of aware that things died, and that there was sadness attached to it. We were aware that Grandma wasn’t around anymore. We were aware that Mr. Mittens 2 now slept where Mr. Mittens 1 used to, but any questions about where they’d disappeared to were usually met by some handwavy “they’re with God, now” followed by Mom locking herself in the bathroom for an hour, and me trying really hard to pretend I couldn’t hear her crying. Mostly by turning up the volume on the TV, because—once again—I was six, and that is a lot for a small brain to process. Anyway… the good sister had to speedrun us through death, and the soul, and judgement, so she could get to heaven and hell. Which she was very very excited about.

It was the standard Catholic description of both places. Lounging on puffy clouds in heaven with God, grandma, and assorted angels and saints. Eternal damnation and painful shit in hell with demons, Hitler, and everyone who wasn’t baptized Catholic. I’m pretty sure I was already pretty familiar with both of these concepts, at least in a basic rudimentary way because Looney Tunes had covered them in various cartoons. But the special twist that the good sister was putting on it—and the reason I have this moment etched into my psyche—was that both of these things, the good place and the bad place, would last forever.

The idea of forever is a mindfuck. It’s especially a mindfuck to a six year-old whose idea of forever is generally reserved for car rides lasting forever, Happy Days having been on the air forever, the space between birthdays taking forever, and getting yelled at for being in the bathroom forever. And sure enough, most of our questions were neither about heaven nor hell—which we collectively decided to punt down the road for at least a few years—but rather about this idea of forever. Heaven was easy enough to understand. Hell was easy enough to understand. But the idea that we’d be spending eternity in either place was enough to kick off a panic attack. It was too big a concept for six year-old brains to grasp.

How does something just not end?

Would we be doing the same things every day? Was there a rotation of activities, maybe? Were there movie theaters in heaven? And did they get new releases? (We were still a few years away from Star Wars and this particular question would only become more important.) Would we be able to see our friends? Was there room for advancement? Was there recess between tortures? And if so, did it come with a snack? Would Mr. Mittens 1 be in heaven? (Please be mindful that it wasn’t until 1989 that Disney once and forever saved us from this particular despair by releasing All Dogs Go to Heaven, finally giving adults a go-to movie to put on when the family dog kicked it, and sparing your dad the emotional work of explaining death, which he was both ill-equipped for and disinterested in.) And what about grandma? Could grandma bake in heaven? And would she look like young grandma—who we’d never met but had seen photos of—or older grandma, who always had candy in her purse? Would we recognize Grandma?! Would we grow old in these places or stay the same age? (Incredibly important question when you’re small and six years old.) And most importantly, exactly how long is forever?! Which we asked about thirty different ways, our panic only growing with each unsatisfactory answer.

But really, all the questions more or less revolved around whether we could find our people. (And pets.)

Needless to say, the lesson that the good sister was trying to teach us that day went completely sideways. Her intent was to paint heaven as this amazing place we should all strive to be going to, and hell as this awful place that we should all be doing everything possible to avoid. Instead—and this was completely predictable in hindsight—we were equally freaked out by the vastness of both places. Or rather, I should say both concepts because, sitting here many years removed from that day’s panic attack, I can smugly say that I got over my panic about the vastness of the afterworld by realizing both “places” were bullshit.

Also, I’ve seen heaven and hell right here on Earth.

But you didn’t ask about religion, you asked about space. Which is fair to point out. But by the time my young self was learning about the vastness of space, I’d already had to prematurely deal with the vastness of the afterworld, and space seemed like a cakewalk. Also, Star Trek was on TV, and space seemed pretty cool. You didn’t have to die to get there. There were cool adventures. Everyone on the ship seemed to like each other. The wore sexy uniforms. Also, the vastness of space only increased the chances that Star Trek would never run out of adventures, which has proved to be correct. But the main point of the show was that when people worked together, the vastness of space became not a threat, but an opportunity to reward curiosity and exploration. (It’s worth noting that the Enterprise’s mission statement was “to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations.” Not to conquer but to seek out.)

Whenever my daughter started a new school, or a new job, or a new activity of some sort, I’d always send her off by telling her to find her people. The vastness of new spaces is made more manageable when you make a strong connection with others. A thirteen year old on their first day of high school is coming face-to-face with the incomprehensible vastness of space. Someone starting a new job is coming face-to-face with the incomprehensible vastness of space. My parents, who immigrated to the United States with no idea how to speak the language, a toddler, and a baby, came face-to-face with the incomprehensible vastness of space. And me—just four years after that—being told that sure, you’re in America now, but someday you’re gonna go to hell, came face-to-face with the incomprehensible vastness of space. And I rejected it.

Space is a big place, and there is enough space for everyone.

I’ve lived in cities, where space is at a premium, my entire life. I am acutely aware of my upstairs neighbor walking with needless purpose across their apartment. I am acutely aware of when my next door neighbors are watching TV, or listening to music, or having a party. And I’m sure they’re acutely aware of when I do the same. We are packed in. We don’t all get along, but because we are packed in we attempt to make it work. And because we are all packed in, I can walk out my door and take the sidewalk a couple of blocks to a place where I can get a good burrito. I can walk a block to a neighborhood café. I can walk a little further to my favorite pinball machine. I can also walk to a neighbor’s house where we can watch the WNBA Finals (Go Valkyries!) together, and I’m sure the people next door are acutely aware of what we are doing. Because we are loud.

This week’s newsletter is a little late because Erika is on a trip and I’m at home taking care of an eighteen year old dog who decided (he did not decide) that this was the perfect time to get a UTI. He woke up this morning in obvious distress so I took him out to the dogpark, where he proceeded to pee all over me. By the time other neighbors started coming out with their dogs neither of us were at our best. Within minutes one of them was texting the local pet store owner, who is also a friend, another neighbor was giving me her UTI remedy recipe, another neighbor ran home to grab some ginger so I could make it, and another neighbor was sourcing antibiotics from the communal pet medicine chest (not sure I should be admitting to this publicly). As I was walking home one neighbor hugged me and said “Call if you need us. Remember, we’re a community.” These are my people. This is why I live in cities. People drive me nuts, but the lack of them would drive me insane.

Space is vast. Community makes it manageable.

We are on a little ship exploring the incomprehensible vastness of space. And while what’s out there can be both scary and exciting, and a little too big to take in sometimes, it’s worth remembering that we’re traveling through it on a little ship, and we’ve got our crew. And maybe the incomprehensible vastness of space is filled with similar little ships, with similar little crews. And similar little dogs. (Dogs exist everywhere in space.) And hopefully, we’re all curious about one another. The truth is we’ll probably never meet, but in case we do—it’s not a bad idea to start practicing getting along with the people closest to us. They’re already here.

Whether we’re measuring in city blocks or light years, we’re not alone.

❤️‍🩹

🗳️ While I am very happy about the results of last week’s election, I’m also aware of how many Democrats ran (and won) on anti-trans platforms. Trans people were asked to ignore that for “the greater good.” It is a privilege to be able to look at two candidates and see one that stands up for you, and that privilege should be extended to everyone. We should stop asking trans people to put their civil rights on hold for our cis comfort. Enjoy the victory, now start fighting. You can donate to Trans Lifeline to start.

🙋 Got a question? Ask it. Please! I need more questions.

📣 Erika is hosting a research workshop on November 12. It’s very good! You should go.

🛋️ Need help? Want a 1-on-1 session? We can talk about anything.

🍉 Please help the children of Palestine and keep them in your hearts. We now have an opportunity to stop funding Israel’s genocide. I suggest we take it. Fuck Chuck Schumer.