There’ll Be Rest When You Are Done

I am very tired. No, weary. The bone-deep weariness that is drifting into numbness.

It’s been a bad year.

We’ve already lost so many. Some of our greatest artists, the people that shared their genius with us so that we might see-hear-feel beauty. Their extraordinary gifts no longer pour out into the world, and the lack leaves the world less vibrant, less colorful.

And if there was ever a world that desperately needed that vibrancy, its this one. Right now.

Gunmen opening up and killing people only makes the news if there are enough bodies to get ratings. Deadlock in Congress has a body count.

Do you remember when Ferguson, MO burned? We’ve had a parade of dead black men and women shot dead by law enforcement since then. We have it on video and Facebook and twitter and periscope and tumblr and instagram and we still say “law enforcement” unironically. Spike Lee says his people are being hunted. A badge is a hunting license and so long as you have it you can kill with impunity.

Jesse Williams gave a speech and the internet blew up. It was powerful and moving and compelling. He decried the slaughter of his people.

We just lost two more men of color. We have it on video. We know who shot them both. No charges, and not much hope that there will be. Before I could finish typing this more people died in Dallas. This time cops, protecting BLM protestors. Snipers shot dozens. America can’t catch a break.

It’s been a really bad night.

I’ve seen Williams’ speech all over social media.

It feels like I will be seeing it over and over and over. More people die, there’s Jesse’s speech.

I’m sorry Mr. Williams. Yesterday, today and tomorrow, I’m sorry.

This is Sisyphus on a 24-hour news cycle.

The powerlessness is the worst part, at least for those of us watching, grim spectators.

I have no memory of a time where the actions available to me were as impotent as today. Sit-ins, stand-ins, parades, marches, and so many vigils. We’ve created pageantry for murder. It’s made of empathy and paralysis.

I’m an ally. Except I don’t have any strength or even an idea what to do. Write to my senator? I live in a blood red state. What options are left to me?

I’ll tweet about it.

Tonight the state of the nation ain’t so great.

But I’m no prophet.

I feel like November might break me. We need a landslide, an avalanche, a 50 to 0 up and down the ballet win. The Party of Trump, and don’t kid yourself that they are anything else, has to be decimated. I don’t know what other way to send the message.

It’s wishful thinking, but damn it would be nice.

It’s been a long time since the city on the hill shined brightly. Since being an American felt at all exceptional.

And while I lament a nation in decline, somewhere, tonight, mothers are mourning their sons. Husbands mourning their wives. Young people terrified of being hunted by the peacekeepers.

It’s not a good night.

There’s been a lot of those recently.

I’m tired. Weary. There’s only one clear choice left.

Carry on. Somehow.


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