i have paid admission.
i have paid admission and i will not go until i am due to present at 9 am on this saturday.
in part, because i am exhausted. how is this semester even still happening? how are we even still doing this?
a student emails me at 4:30 am to tell me their sister was shot by her boyfriend so their going to miss class today.
a student emails me at 5:30 pm to tell me that they have discussed with their therapist the possibility of inpatient care but they think they can power through this semester.
in the feedback N provided on this paper i'm presenting at this conference, she suggested i talk about how language empowers us.
reader, it does not.
it fucking cuts us up!!!!
i say that. i do not believe it. not wholly.
in today's live classes they were doing research. one student has been writing about ghosting but, in their essay, what they described sounded different.
today, they found the word for it: orbiting.
the way their face lit up on camera!!!
the way we feel when we find the word for the experience we thought we were alone in!!!!
but also jesus fucking christ. i refuse to be empowered. empowerment blows. it lets the systems and institutions off the hook. i refuse.
this paper i'm delivering is the one about kim kardashian and lost time. the one i spent the whole of the trump presidency working on. i quoted a bit of it in the post-before-the-last-post. maybe you are familiar.
i seesaw between feeling completely alive and joyous ("delight" was the word i applied when speaking with my parents the other evening, beholding my sunset out my window) and just utterly bombed out.
this is teaching. this is trauma. this is pandemic. this is rape. this is a whole tangled knot of things.
so many of my students are writing about sexual violence. which means i cancelled my therapy session this week, wherein we are processing sexual violence, in order to read student essays on sexual violence.
that isn't irony, but it's something.
i had the thought today of what if this isn't over? what if we have to do this again in the fall? but then, last night, as i was trying to fall into what would ultimately be my second night in a row of nightmares, i had the potentially even worse thought of what if i'm expected to teach in person next year and i have to go back to not being able to hear my own students??!
truly, there is no win.
in my ideal world, i would continue teaching online and they would continue loving me there and i would continuing being able to hear them whilst also not having to fear for anyone's life.
but nothing about this has ever been easy, so why would we ever expect that to change?
they really give you so much freedom, debo says when i tell her we're moving to just one live session per week. and i realize i never told her we're actually only required to do one live session per week.
i have been going above and beyond.
i have been going above and beyond and yet, still, i always feel guilty. i always feel it is never enough.
i do it because i think it genuinely makes learning easier on them. but maybe also because it makes life easier on me? as WRB said, they are the totality of our social lives right now.
which is maybe 75-83% true for me. because i also have weekly union meetings and therapy and walks with K.
in april 2015, i came to DC to do research. i stayed in a flat in capitol hill. the cherry trees were close to bloom or just past bloom. i don't know, but i took pictures of them. and i hiked across busses and trains to get out to NARA. and i viewed the collections at the LOC. (the man who raped me works at the LOC, so i will not be going there now.)
in april 2019, i came to DC for a long weekend, for a conference. i stayed in a flat in the neighborhood where i live now. i went to maybe two sessions (including my own) of the conference, in a neighborhood i later house-sat in. i made out in the street with a peruvian one street over from where i would, six months later, live. i bought sushi from the safeway where i bought that same sushi tonight.
the whole point of this kardashian piece i should be working on right now-- the whole point of everything i write, basically-- is that we do not know what will happen next, we do not know where the story will go and, in that messiness, lay all the beauty. the horror too, but also the beauty and the beauty is what matters most. the beauty is what sustains us as we deconstruct the horror.
last spring, i told my students how, in the fall of 1999, when i was a freshman in mississippi with no friends, after my grandmother died, i used to sit on a hill every night and watch the sun set.
in the spring of 2015, having just written the whole of jackie's 64-years-long life in, like, ONE YEAR of mine, i wandered DC somewhat catatonic, in love with a man who did not return that love and did not respond to my letter, consumed by the fact that we will, all of us, one day die, appalled by the evils people do upon others.
today, 80 days removed from my most recent rape, i walked in the sunshine. later, i watched claude snuggle into a stream of it.
i've a dim awareness that i am not ok, but i will be. we will be. in the end, inevitably, even as we go forward on the road to imminent disaster, it will all of it-- all of it-- work out ok.
there is beauty, if not in the disaster then in the mess.