#zinec

It’s one of those moments I know I’ll never forget. The carne de chivo and pan con chocolate for dessert. The tidy house with bright but warm yellow paint. Surrounded by “family of family” but they treated me like a son. Said the uncle: “sí, se fue al DF sin conocer a nadie por allá, ¡fíjate! noooombre” --- That summer I was in Mexico City on scholarship to take classes and do research. Mobility. I took a trip to my home state to visit family and they were all fascinated by my journey, overtly proud that a conocido had conquered the monstrous beast of a city that is Mexico City. All the while my privilege was not lost on me. My liberal arts college’s school money afforded me a cozy room in a b&b in what was described as the “Manhattan” of Mexico City. Mobility. It felt uncomfortable, I was embarrassed to discuss my trip because everything about it was comparatively comfortable. The “uncle” who praised me had many times before crossed the border to work labor intensive, underpaid jobs -- as my parents once did, crossing the border with me as a toddler. Mobility. That part of my story was overshadowed because of class mobility … I was protected by my new socioeconomic class, protected by my naturalization papers as a U.S. citizen, affording me the privilege to move back and forth across the border as much as I can afford. Mobility. The “uncle” went on to tell us about the time he accidentally fell asleep on the MARTA train in Atlanta, waking up out by the airport, and his adventure to get home with the very little English he knew. Mobility.

102016: “This morning I took a diet pill and then drank a Red Bull and then I had a protein bar. That’s all I’ve had today and I don’t really anticipate that I’ll eat much more. Maybe I’ll have some soup for dinner.”

“Sometimes I’m just like, “I can just deal with it,” or really I just don’t want to be told something I already know. It’s not a fear of being judged, it’s not a fear really at all. It’s more that the thought of expressing a vulnerability would imply that I have a problem-which, you know, may or may not be true, and is more likely true than not- and...it is true.”   111016: “How things change in a couple of days. I don’t know what the last time we talked was, but Donald Trump is president. Well, president-elect.”

“It’s hard to grieve any personal strife because everyone feels it so tangibly. I went to the Brooklyn Museum with Sammy for this event called “Process Mourn and Activate.” I don’t think I actually processed mourned or activated, but I definitely felt inspired...being in that space and hearing people’s respectful agreement with one another and acknowledgment of identity. Being around other organizers is always uplifting to me in any capacity so I felt positive about it.”

“I won’t delve into the plethora of emotions I’ve gone through in the past few days about this because I am, as many people are, very exhausted right now. And drained. And afraid, I’m very afraid. Not really for myself but for a lot of people and for our country and its future. I’ve never felt this much of a stake in the “Social Good,” or like I’ve so fundamentally misunderstood humanity. It’s confusing and upsetting and it’s a trauma.” 112916: “I’ve been thinking a lot lately and have felt more activated and motivated to start to think about the future a little bit. I think my gut reaction has been to stop thinking because it’s scary, but now prospects seem less scary and more exciting...something that makes life less scary is feeling prepared and I want to feel prepared so that’s what I’m doing.”

“I’m tired of being demoralized by the world. So, I’m numb? What can I say?”

The election ended while I was strung between separate lives. Physically, I was in Philadelphia, mid work-week (the confidence of coworkers and friends and housemates and headlines waning as the hours ticked by, as a deep-rooted fear gradually blossomed within the dark corners of our basements, the far flung edges of the MFL, and beyond) but mentally I was traveling, en route to my family in the exurbs of Atlanta. I was weighing the cost of a last-minute flight back against the price of my family’s collective sanity, displayed as a triptych spanning election week: my father’s newly broken leg; my niece’s mother a liar and a thief and gone; my own mother at its center, her energy thin and wearing thinner.

I side-stepped the fear shame shock anger fist-swinging desire to fight emotional whirlpool exhibited by some around me (I hid from those feeling victorious) in the days immediately after the election. Anxiety about my family enveloped me. I vacated my Philadelphia life and found myself the caretaker of 2 dogs, a dirty kitchen, and my 7 month-old niece with a part-time gig as my father’s chauffeur. There, I was useful.