My cursor hovers above the "post" button. Two minutes, five minutes, nine minutes. The post is still the same: "shout out to everyone at Hampshire demanding institutional
accountability to and resources for Students of Color and survivors; I
don't know all of what has happened these past few days/months but I
want to send my virtual support to you all."
Unfolding these minutes I find that the creases are greasy with a dirt I recognize, and the cloth is rough and raw:
1. I contemplate erasing the whole thing and going back to Buffy. I wish I had never decided to check Facebook. I imagine all the likes this post will receive; the idea of my own self-satisfaction is revolting. I imagine getting a comment from someone who was there telling me how worthless my virtual support is. I won't need them to remind me. I consider erasing the whole thing. I imagine writing "please do not like this post; I am not writing it for activist cookies." My fingers disagree, however, and it is they who get to choose, humble workers though they may appear to be.
2. I want to write something like, "if there's anything I can do, let me know." But I am afraid to put "anything" out there. Dare I admit I don't want to be held do that?
3. I want to escape the distance I see in these words; a virtue of privilege and also one of insignificance. I think of erasing the whole thing.
4. But that quote by MLK comes to mind, about remembering the silence of your friends. I have been that silent friend. And that knowledge is a worm eating its way through my lungs and stomach.
5. Would that it might turn those wretched memories into fertile soil for a new voice within me.
6. Ahh, Voice. My voice is a fork-tongued goddess you see. With one fork of her tongue she sings a song that is valiant and righteous, while the other fork's song is a poison. This second song is heard only by the small lion in my breast, and he awakens at her beckoning and swells and swells inside me. It is fear that keeps my voice locked away more often than not- fear, not of those who would hear my truth and turn from me, but fear of lion inside me.
7. And so, eagerly I fall into a pit of judgement; they are demanding too much, this is all a misunderstanding, etc. But it is a shallow pit, and in the rivulets and puddles that surround me I see only reflections of my own disconnection and alienation, their oily surfaces can barely hide the strength of my desire to be involved. This desire soon floods the pit and it dissolves.
8. There is a moment of calm. My ankles are submerged in a fine silty mud. The oily veneer has run off leaving the shallow water clear. I can see small fish dart about, each consumed in a chase. They do not notice me, nor each other, nor even that the pool is a mirage.
9. This calm allows my fingers to think. They type, "and ask that if there is a
specific role for alums to play please let me/us know." then click "post" so quick it's hardly a decision.
I walk toward my lion, awakened by the goddess. He is panting now, full of power. This lion is a part of me; I cannot cage him, cannot kill him. We look at one another, and I know what I must do. I will have to learn to train him.
