emergenc(i)es
Recently I’ve been infinitely more attuned to the sounds of sirens and helicopters. And I’ve been thinking about how many people live their whole lives highly attuned to these sounds. Last week I was talking to my therapist about a situation in which I might potentially come into conflict with federal immigration agents; I was saying I was scared.
“Do you think you’re going to provoke them?” she asked.
“I don’t think they need to be provoked,” I said.
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Los Angeles is an occupied city. We are currently under military occupation. 200 marines isn’t nearly enough to subdue a population of almost 4 million, but the fact remains. And it has fallen to us, this population, to explain a set of conflicting facts. That we are not, as certain news outlets like to report, living in a war zone. And also, that we are disrupted and afraid.
Yesterday I went to Home Depot to get ordinary things: a lockbox, a push broom. The whole time I felt fragile and vulnerable. I kept lookout for vans and box trucks, tinted windows, men in masks and in uniform and out of uniform. I thought about how if they came I would not be able to stop them from snatching up the people around me. Disappearing them from the world.
That night, D and I went to a taco place to watch a baseball game. Shohei Ohtani on the mound for the first time in two years; a marvel of human endurance and desire. We ate al pastor nachos and the bartender gave us free drinks for being regulars. Everyone in the bar went nuts when the Dodgers scored. D and I met a dog, chatted with the people next to us, scandalized a small child by saying “fuck” several times. The sun set and the sky went such a rich, deep blue.
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Everyone says this is what happens, but it really is what happens. Your city comes under military occupation. You bitch about the small shit with your friends; worry about money, about love. You understand that you are experiencing something important in the scope of history and also, you worry about your baseball team’s record. You feel so small against all of it, against that scope of history. So small that honestly, it’s hard to understand what’s happening in the first person. Or really even at all.
And yet. I am talking myself into being brave as best I can. I am looking for ways to jam my fingers into the gears of fascism, no matter how futile it feels. To shove my palms against the earth’s turning, and insist that it turn my way.
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There are many ways to resist what’s happening to us. And it is imperative that we resist it with everything we’ve got. You could join a rapid response network and/or educate people in your neighborhood about their rights and hand out red cards. Many mutual aid organizations in and around LA are doing things like paying taqueros and other street vendors so that they can stay home while ICE is in town; others are arranging to have groceries delivered to folks who don’t want to leave their houses. We also have other, ongoing crises that are interlinked with this acute one, so you could help feed people or build hygiene kits for unhoused neighbors, many of whom are also undocumented. Plug in with LA Forward or SELAH or CHIRLA. It doesn’t have to be scary. It doesn’t have to be huge. But it has to be something.
It has to be.
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In the midst of all of this, I am also promoting a book that comes out a week from today. An artist named Kate Zimmerman collaborated with me on a webtoon version of its prologue; you can read that here.