RIP, "WE."

You hate to see it.

Around 11:30pm last night, my rage arrived. I’m sure it had everything to do with the fact that earlier in the evening, I read some new poems and discussed the process with a lovely group of undergraduate students. (Like, WOW: young people who wanted to spend their Friday evening, the week of our evil election, discussing poetry.) It was so great to be with them. They brought apple cider and cookies and a bag of tangerines for us to snack on.

Just before I left, I called over four black students who had attended and asked brilliant questions all evening. I told those young women to huddle up. We put our heads together. “I think y’all know what I’m about to say,” I said. They nodded. I asked them to take care of themselves and each other. “This country isn’t looking out for us. But it definitely ain’t looking out for y’all.” I said a few more things that I won’t share here because, frankly, I don’t know y’all like that. Those four beautiful brilliant black women were like “mmhmm, got it, message received.” We hugged and parted ways.

It does… something… to a person to have to have a conversation like that with young people. America, I will never forgive you for making that conversation necessary once again. I spent much of my evening writing and reading, a desperate bid to keep my heartbreak and rage at bay. But it’s here now. It’s here.

And before you comment on this post: don’t worry, I am fully committed to live long well and richly. Every day that I’m alive and working and breathing, I hope my life feels like a jagged shiv in the side of America’s neck. ☺️

Anyway, here’s a brief eulogy for We.

We died a quick and nasty death on Tuesday night. 

Though it’s true that We had been quite ill for some time now, You and I as well as Us and Them were nonetheless startled by the violent coughing, the spasms at the end. 

RIP, We.

We died how We lived: insincerely.

(Black people, see you at the repast. DJ Jazzy Jeff will be on the 1s and 2s. No plus ones invited.)