stew.

[Image ID: a black and white typography edit that reads, in all caps, "the homosexual and the transsexual must always seek to liberate the other for they fight the same fight!" in the middle of the image is a dandelion with a bloom, buds, leaves, and exposed roots. behind the dandelion is a black square. the image is framed by a black square. the entire image is textured to look aged and photocopied. /End ID]

I’ve BEEN in this situation. You walk past an old crime scene, or the place where an accident happened, and you see evidence of something terrible. If it’s old, maybe broken glass, or scuff marks.

But sometimes, you’re too late. Sometimes someone is on the ground, and EMTs are already helping, and the only helpful thing you can do you is move on, refuse to linger, refuse to form a crowd.

Sometimes there’s dried blood, or fresh blood, but when you look around you can’t find anyone hurt or needing help. Whatever happened, it has happened without you, and you can’t undo it or make it better. You could contact an authority, report what you’ve seen, but that’s just sharing information. It doesn’t FEEL like helping.

Humans are by nature incredibly compassionate creatures. What is more heartbreaking to an animal designed to bring comfort than a pain that cannot be comforted? A hurt that cannot be soothed?

You are confronted by this helplessness, and it looks you in the face and says, “It’s too late for you to fix this. You must move on, and hope that next time, you aren’t.” And then you do. You have to. There is no other choice.

Ana Mendieta’s piece is not condemning the observed- it’s mourning their directionless compassion, their grief, their uncertainty- their concern and hope offered to someone or something they will never know, never speak to, never be able to help.

It says that we love each other, that we care for one another, and that even if we are lost and no one ever finds us, we are cared for long after we are gone, and by people who never knew our names.