In the next world over, I want to be able to feel my left elbow, I want to be able to taste the rind of a lemon and be in my bones so that my lover knows where to find me. On the days where the grief, loss, and subjugation keep me tied to this earthly realm I think about that feeling of embodiment and whether the price for entry for that golden tomorrow requires this type of longing.
In this year that has changed my DNA, I think back on my younger self who was full of passion, who saw every moment of uprising as a means to help move our people closer to freedom. I think about the instances where I would meet movement leaders and try to ask them how they survived and got kind politically correct answers of self-care and rest even as I knew the world never stopped for those of us living on the edge of time.
I know nostalgia to be a trap that tastes best when rooted somewhere intangible. Every time I used to see the mariame kaba quote “hope is a discipline” questions would follow, what is the discipline? Where do we find hope after immense grief? What can bring us back after loss? Most of my wonderings came from lived experiences of when the underside of movement wasn’t always kind or welcoming and I could remember how often people's worst traumas were jokes at organizing convenings, how organizations exercised membership that built their bones and saw frequently how money and…
