Friday, June 16, 2017

Fragmentation

It's too much. It continues to be too much. I don't have the words, and I continue to write them anyway, many of them wrong. What else can I do? What else can any of us do, besides continue to do and give our best to our neighbors, to work a little bit longer, to fight a little bit harder, give what we didn't know we had, because we believe that we will get through this.

Or maybe we don’t believe that, not really, but we have to pretend, because again, what else can we do?

I write in fragments, now, my thoughts disjointed. Broken. What before held together, albeit loosely, shattered beyond repair.

November 9, 2016
When they called North Carolina for Tr*mp, I left the LGBTQ Center and road my bike home alone. The sinking feeling in my gut was unlike any I've felt in any other election, or any other time.

I sobbed uncontrollably for a long time last night. I doubt whether I will ever see a woman president, though for a few days I had dared to hope that my beloved nieces might grow up in a world where women had always been able to hold that particular office. I cried for myself, and for all the people I love.

I cried more today listening to Hillary's speech, a speech which was what it needed to be, a speech in which she played out her role perfectly to the very end, campaigning against, debating, and now conceding to a man so unworthy of her efforts that I can barely stand it.

This is what it is to be a woman.

I listened to the speech, and I understood but did not agree with the call for unity, the admonition that we now owe Tr*mp our support as president elect.

I owe him nothing. Rather, I owe it to my neighbors to fight like hell.

November 10, 2016
You can be part of the solution, or you can be part of the problem. There is no other option in this world, no room for complacency. People will lose their lives; people have already lost their lives.

I have a date this weekend with a man who self identifies as a feminist, yet seems politically apathetic at best. And among the many things, large and small, weighing on my mind today is this: why would I waste a single moment of my precious life on someone who does not care? There is no joy in a relationship with someone who is not willing to fight with and for me and for all of those I love.



You may wonder at the people protesting in the streets last night. Perhaps you misunderstand protest, if you are asking, "What will that accomplish? The people have spoken." For one thing, it is not as simple as that, given the gutting of the Voting Rights Act. Many voices were not heard on election day due to systemic voter suppression. Second, as the numbers are tallied and we see that HRC won the popular vote, again the question arises as to whether, with an archaic electoral college designed to protect white landowning men, it will ever be true that "every vote counts."

But ultimately, the reasons to protest in the immediate aftermath of the election are less strategic than they are about the visceral need to see and hear one another, to stand in solidarity at a moment in time when that solidarity may feel like something we imagined.

December 15, 2016
We all have work to do. We cannot each do everything, but we all have to do something. For me, that's doubling down on my commitment to words, and using them well. It's preaching the gospel. It's prayers and invocations and benedictions and listening, listening, listening. And speaking through tears, when my voice cracks, because this year broke me open like none other, and though we may say "Good riddance 2016!" I am smart enough to know that things may well get worse before they get better. So I will continue to write as best I am able, using words accurately and carefully to describe what I see. This is how I have always practiced resistance. I simply never knew how badly I would need it, now, trying to articulate a some way forward.

January 20, 2017
You can’t go home again.

That unoriginal phrase sums up so many of the things I’ve been writing and thinking about lately. I thought I was writing something about desire, but perhaps it’s not about wanting so much as about loss, about becoming who you want to be, only to realize you can never get back to who you once were.

I have never felt less at home in my new world than I do now, when all the white people around me are talking about “the white working class,” these other people out there, these people they don’t know, these people they want to understand.

When I parlayed my student loan financed education into a graduate program at Duke (and more loans) I did not feel like I belonged there, and yet for many reasons, my skin among them, I had access. And I could learn to act like I belonged, fake like I shared a certain upbringing, mask my shock at so many little things others treated as normal that to me were anything but.

White people with money seem to think that being more sympathetic to “the white working class” will somehow fix racism, I guess. Typing that sentence makes it seems even more absurd than just thinking it. I did not wake up to racism because rich white liberals were patient and kind and sympathetic toward me. Maybe instead try listening to people of color and believing their descriptions of their own lives, learning about unconscious bias, learning about the actual history and policy that uphold systemic racism, the scaffolding of our country. Do we need to learn empathy? Sure - but with whom?

Perhaps I am arguing with myself, here. Perhaps this is all about my inability to feel at home in the places my education has bought me access to, and the guilt that discomfort and confusion causes. My own intersecting identities leave me both vulnerable and, theoretically, powerful. Always disorienting, that apparent contradiction is even more so in a moment when so many of us feel powerless.

Every recommendation that I should learn about “the white working class” is a reminder that I don’t belong. And so I am compelled to further self interrogation, to make sense of my own whiteness, alongside this class confusion, as if articulating it might somehow fix this feeling of being cut off from both my past and my present.

January 23, 2017
Who do we think can actually be "convinced" by conversation, and why? How does one best channel one's energies in fighting against Tr*mp and all the other evils around us that his name seems to have become a stand-in for? Some people can have fruitful conversations with their conservative relatives, and if you can, I hope you do. For me, wasting time feeling guilty about not rehashing the same painful arguments I’ve been having for years seems like a pretty terrible way to practice resistance. It seems like dwelling on feelings of white guilt, frankly, as if maybe somehow I could absolve myself of my own failings by having enough awkward family dinners, as if my own past and that legacy of whiteness could be fixed by that, somehow. I don’t think so. Sometimes you have to cut your losses, and find other ways to do the work.

February 25, 2017
When I am afraid, my impulse is to pursue knowledge. If I just understood, perhaps I would know what to do, perhaps I could respond in the right way, do the right thing. Trump removes the Spanish version of the White House website, and I redouble my meager efforts to learn Spanish. The checks and balances of our three branches of government become increasingly important due to our power hungry president, so I start listening to SCOTUS podcasts to better understand the judiciary branch.

These are reasonable things to do. You no doubt have your own coping mechanisms. But in the end, no amount of knowledge will protect me, or enable me to protect those I love.

April 22, 2017
I saw an article this week about a large number of people leaving their churches since November, and it made me scratch my head, because I see the opposite impulse, not only in myself, but even in my other, non religious communities. People want to believe in something other than us, because it is really difficult to believe in us right now, even if you surround yourself with kind and generous people as much as possible. I wonder whether the people leaving their churches are leaving because those churches fail to speak to those fragile moments, fail to name the fears, the doubts, fail to struggle together to see Jesus in this wounded world and to figure out how to love one another within it.

June 13, 2017
“How difficult is it for one body to feel the injustice wheeled at another? Are the tensions, the recognitions, the disappointments, and the failures that exploded in the riots too foreign?” Claudia Rankine, Citizen, p. 116.

June 16, 2017
As heavily as current events that make the news weigh on my mind, what is sometimes worse is the fear of the quietly humming machinery running behind the scenes. You can neither keep up with nor control it. Economic devastation seems inevitable, regardless of what else we do.

People are dying, at home, abroad. Gun in the hands of civilians, bombs dropped by the businessman in chief.

The talk of impeachment continues, and as it becomes more real, so does my fear of  Pence. This waking nightmare is never ending. Daily life is normal, and anything but.





I find refuge in routine. Wake up at 7, make coffee, drink coffee while listening to a podcast (Monday - Book Riot, Tuesday - Dear Prudence, Wednesday - Code Switch, Thursday - Politically Reactive, Friday - Call Your Girlfriend), make breakfast, write morning pages.








All of this happens by 9am, at which point I have to figure out how to work during the less structured hours of 9-noon, when my calendar says simply “write” and I fear that I am running out of words.









Friday, March 31, 2017

100 Tweeds

I am wearing 100 Tweeds today because it is the scent of being the smartest person in the room - old books, cigars, leather armchairs, understated brilliance that doesn't need to prove itself. It's "masculine" in that silly way that we gender things without gender, like perfume, like beverages, giving them meanings that expand or constrict without warning. I wear it to feel expansive, to take up space literal and metaphorical, to refuse the shrinkage this world asks of women every day.

I am thinking, too, about how much of my writing life consists of pointing out connections that appear logical to me, indeed almost obvious, yet which people writing for big publications often miss entirely. Right now, that's the fact that Mike Pence's views about dining alone with women have everything to do with his tie breaking vote yesterday to block family planning money. The need to control women's bodies, the narrowness of who and what we are, the risk our bodily freedom poses to men in power - these are integrally related. I studied philosophy in college - a "masculine" subject, one of three women in the class of '07 to earn that major at Hope (in a small department that amounted to 30% of that year's phil grads) - so I've been trained to think in certain ways. No doubt this is one result.

Bringing the above thoughts together, then, I wonder how much of my surprise that others do not always see the connections I consider so obvious stems from not grasping my own intelligence. Saying "Isn't it obvious?" is as much about my inability to acknowledge my own authority on certain matters as it is about naming a clear "If a, then b..." connection. In saying it's "obvious," I diminish my own importance. I shrink, even as I am trying to expand.

Thursday, March 30, 2017

When Harry Did Not Meet Sally

A couple of years ago I confided to a married male friend that, even though I’d long since rejected the idea that cisgendered heterosexual men and women can’t be friends, I still worried sometimes about other people’s perceptions of my friendships. I know better than to think people will not make incorrect assumptions about my friendships with men, single or married, and I felt the need to tread carefully. I still assumed I would be considered “the other woman,” no matter that my friendships were platonic, open, and honest - nothing secretive about them. My friend was surprised that I would feel this way, and in a weird way that has helped me in the years since to stop wasting time or energy on the matter, to chalk these worries up to my conservative evangelical past and its resulting internalized sexism and self loathing. Of course some people might have their own ideas about my friendships, but so long as my friends, their partners, and I were all on the same page, why waste time worrying about what anyone else thinks? Unfortunately, the simple suggestion that “men and women can’t be friends” has darker implications, beyond my own day to day life.

This week’s flurry of hot takes about the fact that Mike Pence won’t eat alone with women other than his wife (a throw-back to the “Billy Graham rule”), and the number of people like blogger Matt Walsh who’ve defended the position, are a sad reminder that this belief is still prevalent, that it is anything but fringe. Some might laugh it off as an unimportant aside, but I would argue that rather it has everything to do with who we understand women to be and how they are (and will be) treated. That a married man like Matt Walsh cannot think of a single good reason to spend time with a woman who is not his wife tells me in no uncertain terms that he believes women are for sex, for reproduction, and for raising children. Full stop. He cannot imagine that half of his fellow humans have anything else to offer in personal or professional relationships. The caution against spending time with women is framed as a matter of avoiding situations of compromise or suspicion, which on its surface might seem harmless enough - but what that means, specifically, is that women are a source of suspicion. Always.

Coming off the controversy around Tim Keller over the last couple of weeks, as a woman and particularly as one who studies and writes about theology, who teaches and preaches and may hopefully one day be a pastor, I am hyper aware that this kind of misogyny is alive and well even among mainline and some so-called liberal Christians. Others with closer ties to Princeton and the Presbyterian church have written with nuance and heart about that situation, so I don’t feel the need to add to their work (though you should absolutely click those links and read it). Rather I want to point out that the resurgence of these ideas, indeed the fact that those who aren’t as familiar with the religious right are learning for the first time that people think such things, has everything to do with this brand of misogyny becoming mainstream.

Perhaps you think people are being alarmist when they reference The Handmaid’s Tale in relation to the current administration's ideas about women. But these conversations about women and friendship, about whether there is such a thing as “debate” with someone who doesn’t think women can preach, have everything to do with who counts as human, and all the civil and religious liberties that go along with it. If women are only for sex and reproduction, if women should be avoided as temptresses, their bodies carefully controlled, it is not a far leap to the handmaidens Margaret Atwood imagined. Inherent in Walsh’s question, posed as a response to the outcry about Pence’s statement, is the belief both that women’s bodies are for sex and that women exist for men, but that even in existing for men they only offer their bodies, not their whole selves. “Why,” he seems to be asking, “would I spend time with a woman, if not to sleep with her? Therefore I should not spend time with her, lest I be tempted to cheat on my wife.”

I meet with married men alone all the time, as professional women must. As a writing tutor for graduate students in a divinity school, I simply couldn’t do my job if I didn’t. I meet with them in a dull beige office, a professional context, to offer my expertise on theological writing. It is not nearly as sexy as men like Walsh seem to think it is. In fact, it’s quite boring. We mostly talk about commas, active versus passive voice, nouns, verbs, and when it’s appropriate to use “I” in academic writing. Not exactly fodder for anyone’s fantasies.

I also meet with colleagues and former classmates to talk about our careers. I meet male friends for coffee, or for drinks after work, to talk about our lives, our relationships, about books and music and ideas - about many of the same things I share with my women friends, in fact. I cannot speak for them, but I would wager that these men benefit from their friendships with me in many ways. I shouldn’t have to say this next part, but I will: I don’t want to sleep with any of them. And despite what Walsh would have us believe, it is far from “normal” to insinuate that it’s bad for men to make friends with women. It’s disturbing and misogynist and deeply unchristian. It tells me much more about his preoccupation with women’s bodies as sexual objects than it does about anything else.

I hope I can avoid sounding trite in turning here to Galatians 3:28, a verse in some sense both over and underused to discuss the truth that we are neither male nor female but are rather one in Christ. When I read this passage I hear two things: one, a divine reality that in Christ we have been made one, our differences not erased but woven together, freed from oppressive categories; and two, the call to embody that truth by doing the difficult work of making it true in our lives and communities. Make no mistake: it is work. Change is not inevitable on this or any other matter.

In my more generous moments, I feel bad for people like Walsh. They miss out on so much that women have to offer. If they did have women friends, they might learn a thing or two, might even change their minds about some of their toxic theology, though I don’t hold out much hope for that. On the contrary, I would caution any woman to refrain from befriending men with such an evil perception of who they are, for fear of the emotional, spiritual, and physical trauma that too often results. Men like this will continue to subjugate women’s bodies and intellect, perpetuating cycles of abuse, and ultimately turning people away from the church, because of their distortion of the gospel. A distortion that currently resides in the White House, and will dictate policy for years to come. While stepping away from the proliferation of hot takes and internet controversy is important, sometimes it’s the small things like this that point to the bigger, scarier trends that affect us all.

Perhaps most scary to me is how easily moderate and liberal men dismiss women's responses to people like Keller, Pence, Walsh, and others. Have you so quickly adapted to this "new normal"? Do you really need to "hear both sides"? Do we really mean so little to you?

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

An Uncertain Present

Chapel Hill Mennonite Fellowship
February 26, 2017
Matthew 17:1-9, 2 Peter 1:16-21

In today’s gospel text, we enter the story of Jesus’ public ministry in the middle of things. John has baptized Jesus, the devil has tempted him, crowds and crowds of people have listened to his words, and he’s healed people who thought they might never be well. Jesus has also called twelve particular people to follow him as he teaches and preaches, healing people in God’s name. The disciples answered his call, following him, listening as he tells multilayered stories, parables that teach lessons but also begin to reveal his true nature. Over and over throughout the gospels they just don’t quite seem to get it, though. This interests me, because responding to a call like Jesus’ call when you don’t really know who this guy is yet is more mind boggling to me than, say, reading these texts centuries later and thinking, okay, yes, this guy triumphs over death, seems worth dropping everything to follow him, to be part of what he’s doing in the world.

But the disciples don’t really have that kind of knowledge yet. He is their rabbi, their teacher, and certainly they know he’s something special. How could they not? They’ve witnessed the healing, they’ve heard him speak. They left their old lives behind to join him. Here in Matthew 17 things become more clear. This chapter sheds some light – literally – on what is to come.

Jesus has already told the disciples what’s ahead, though Peter refused to believe it. And now Peter, James, and John follow Jesus up a mountain side, retreating from the crowds, echoing Moses’ mountain top sojourn in Exodus 24. And lo, Moses himself, along with Elijah, joins them there. At first Peter wants to stay, to build some shelters and set up camp and spend some time here with Jesus, Moses, and Elijah. Things have been chaotic for Jesus and his disciples, traveling around, followed by crowds. And things will become even more intense in the days to come. The disciples are following Jesus, but they’re still learning who he is, and I think they’re unsettled by what he tells them is on the horizon. This mountain top transfiguration reveals something new to his followers. Some call it the culmination of Jesus’ earthly ministry.

“He was transfigured before them,” the text says, “and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white.” This interruption, this revelation, is scary, what with the voice booming from the clouds: “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” Jesus is glowing, resplendent. His terrified disciples fall to the ground, overcome by their fear. The text continues, “But Jesus came and touched them, saying, “Get up and do not be afraid.” And when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone.”

Jesus tells the disciples to keep what they’ve seen to themselves until after he’s been raised from the dead, which no doubt confuses them, though they seem to comply. Later, in 2 Peter, this story is retold, an eye-witness account for posterity. “For we did not follow cleverly devised myths when we made known to you the power and coming of our Lord Jesus Christ, but we had been eyewitnesses of his majesty.” 2 Peter says, “You will do well to be attentive to this as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts.”

This idea of accounts of the transfiguration as a lamp in a dark place resonates with some of what I see going on around us, as do Jesus words of comfort and instruction, “Get up and do not be afraid.” This week the Washington Post unveiled a new motto, “Democracy dies in the dark.” And while theologically I think we’re concerned with something other than mere democracy, I think there’s a resonance here that I hope I can make clear.

I read a novel this weekend, The Reluctant Fundamentalist, by Mohsin Hamid, a Pakistani author who spent many years living in both New York and London before returning to his home in Lahore. In the novel, a young Pakistani man named Chengez has recently graduated from Princeton and been hired for a highly competitive position in finance. He is living an American dream of sorts at 22, brilliant and successful and dominating his new job. And then the planes crashed into the twin towers on 9/11 and everything changed. Not only how others perceived him, not only his fear for his family back home in Lahore, but also in how he saw himself, the path he was on, what it meant to be working twelve hour days to build a capitalist empire intent on destroying people like him, and his home.

Suffice it to say that this felt like a timely read for many reasons, especially following the bombing of a Sufi shrine in Pakistan last week, which drew little media attention. While our president continues to fight nonexistent boogie men, people are dying. Who has reason to fear whom, when Muslims and people of color in the U.S. who “look” Muslim to some are told to “go home” – or worse, violently attacked, sometimes killed, as happened this week in Kansas. We cannot claim to be a country that values religious freedom. And increasingly it’s clear that for many, faith in God is not stronger than faith in America.

Hamid has this to say about the challenges of moving home to Lahore after his time living abroad:

My faith in this place has, I will admit, been shaken. But my faith in New York was once shaken, when I lived there. My faith in London was once shaken, when I lived there. 
I suppose I have learned to live with intermittent faith in a place. I leap from moments when I think, yes, my home will flourish, to others when I think, no, all that awaits is decline. Maybe this ebb and flow is common. Maybe it has more to do with me. Maybe it is the nature of a fiction writer, some fiction writers, to exist suspended between what is and what we desire there to be, unable, in the end, to pick one over the other, to commit to the life, to reality, or otherwise to the dream.

Hamid’s words about his home connected with a lot of what I hear in people’s fears in the U.S. lately. Some of us probably gave up our faith this place we call home a long time ago, if we had any faith in it to begin with. Many more of our friends and neighbors are for the first time struggling to hang on to their beliefs in this thing called America, this empire, this crumbling democracy. Others double down on that dream, claiming alternately that this seeming crisis is making us great again, a return to a past viewed through rose tinted lenses. And still others respond by noting all the ways a nation built on slavery and genocide has never been great, but dreaming that we could be, someday. In Hamid’s novel, after 9/11 Chengez says, “I had always thought of America as a nation that looked forward; for the first time I was struck by its determination to look back.”

I wonder now if the dream that is dying needs to die – much as the disciples’ visions for who Jesus is and what he would accomplish died in the time following this mountain top transfiguration. This is not to say we shouldn't resist the current sad excuse for national leadership, but rather that our Christian and particularly Mennonite resistance is to dream, and to live, for something different. To get up, and not be afraid, to resist the current regime not in order to maintain the status quo of the U.S. government and so-called “American” ideals, but to shine light on all the dark places created by human lust for power.

2 Peter says, “no prophecy ever came by human will, but men and women moved by the Holy Spirit spoke from God.” Would that we might also be so moved by that Spirit. We'll enter Lent later this week, the journey toward Good Friday followed by Easter morning alleluias. The world will turn. But it does not turn on the transfer of human power – peaceful or not – in the US, or anywhere else. In revealing himself on the mountaintop, Jesus' otherness is obvious. He is not the leader we expect or even want, at times. What sort of world does that usher in?

Hamid wrote of existing “suspended between what is and what we desire there to be,” and that is precisely the story that narrates our lives together, as followers of Christ – an imperfect past, an uncertain present, a future we have yet to grasp.

Thursday, February 23, 2017

Unfinished

I am hungry for art lately, hungrier than usual. I am overflowing with words for the first time in a long time, not because it’s easy to write right now (on the contrary, I’m having a terrible time finishing anything), but because it’s harder not to write, to keep it all inside. I have always been this way; I have always been unhappy when I am not writing. I fold in on myself, unable to express the world inside of me and therefore, somehow, unable to connect to the world outside as well.

One morning a couple weeks ago, I woke up in a funk. I’d slept terribly, my neck was stiff from falling asleep at a weird angle after working too late on a project with a tight deadline. I read too many distressing articles from my phone while still in bed. Finally I got up, made coffee, and started sorting through my inbox. My usual morning routine. PledgeMusic had notified me that The Shadowboxers had written an update about their recent shows, including the one I went to a couple weeks ago in New York, and I clicked through and watched a video of them singing at the meet and greet I attended. The tumult in my head slowed down, and I was able to pay attention to one thing, for a few minutes. Three men, a guitar, harmony - a song.

A song cannot change everything going on around me. It cannot fix what is broken in the world. But it can sustain me when I am struggling to believe that beauty and joy are still possible, when I am struggling with my own ability to create.

I am at my desk, now. I am working (on this, on other things, on everything). And I am thinking about that weekend in New York, about how it feels to watch and listen as someone else does the thing they somehow seem made to do, as no one else can do it. The uniqueness of a performance, the way some of us come alive on stage. The writing life, the creative life, is hard, and little parts of my soul that are sacrificed to survival are restored when I get to be in that space with other artists. It helps me keep going. It is why I want to keep going.

It is strange to say, at the most successful point in my career so far, that writing has never felt more difficult. My book is coming out. But what if people hate it? Even if they don’t hate it, it will inevitably not live up to many readers’ expectations. Good reviews may be just as strange to read as bad ones. I am entering a new phrase as an artist, and that is unsettling.

I am proud of what I made. I am also scared of what comes next.

I am trying to write new things, now, and while I find myself spitting out words semi-regularly, I seem only able to finish articles and reviews for other people’s deadlines. That is, assignments from editors, rather than my own heart’s work. In some respects this is okay, because at least those deadlines keep me working, and the only way through these kinds of walls is to keep writing until the breakthrough happens.

I find myself missing the casual nature of my work when I first started blogging, when it felt like practice, a way to get used to being read by someone other than a professor. A blog read by ten of your friends is less scary than submitting to a magazine (or a hundred magazines) and being rejected (98% of the time, in case you were wondering). I am not a big deal, but I am no longer totally obscure, and the stakes are higher. One only need experience the horror of having something you dashed off in a couple of hours go viral once or twice to realize that your unfinished thoughts will follow you whether you like it or not. I consider myself lucky that I stand by most of what I’ve written, even as I continue to grow and change as a writer. Nonetheless, I write with a greater degree of self consciousness now than I ever had before.

Sometimes I think my biggest flaw is that I want so badly to share with you only my best work.

But that work will never really exist, will it? It always lives off in the distance, moving further out of reach just when I think I am getting closer. Maybe I prefer it that way, always chasing after bliss. After all, as much as I love sharing the finished work with you, I don’t love that more than I love the actual hours at my desk. I love words. I spend my life with them, and my life is a good one.

Part of the reason I chose to pursue an MFA is that I wasn’t sure what my best work would look like, only that I wasn’t there yet, that my writing wasn’t what it could be. I wanted to be pushed. I was tired of compliments. I knew I was capable of more; I still know that. I am learning that the hunger I feel will never be satiated, a hunger not for fame but rather to have made something good, to grasp the ideas in my mind and weave those disparate threads together into something that moves you. Or stops you in your tracks. Or both.

Weeks ago, on my way back to my hostel after listening to The Shadowboxers play a stunning encore medley of songs from artists we lost in 2016, standing on a freezing train platform at 1:00am in Queens, I recalled how I felt on the few occasions when I’ve given a public reading (the closest to that kind of a performance I will ever get, my Hope College coffeehouse covers of Jennifer Knapp songs aside). I am always a wreck beforehand, questioning my entire life’s work and existence, but once I’m at the mic, once I start to read my own words with my own voice, the me on the page melding with the me embodied before you, the nerves dissipate. It only takes a sentence or two before I am transported to a world where there is only me and the page, doing the only thing I’ve wanted to do since I was old enough to name my desires for my own life: to create.

Nothing else feels the way that having an audience laugh in all the right places feels, the way the air seems to change as everyone holds their breath at the same moment, the communal exhale as an essay finds its way home. I started off writing in private, for myself, but I love writing for an audience, I love that I get to share. I am still unused to it, and I know that I will hesitate to click “publish” on this meandering blog post. But I promise I will, because I am just getting started.