The Soul

How We Talk About Ferguson

Scamp texts me from a lockdown drill that she’s going to “wallow in bed all afternoon” because her anger has exhausted her.

Nothing from Diva – probably too angry to even talk.

With Bernardo, the conversation is sort of interspersed with other things. “Chicken cutlets for dinner.” “They’re blocking the FDR.” A staccato of inter-leaved realities. All important. Some more important than others. We’re on the same page. We don’t need to make sense to anyone else.

With my therapist – I emailed him in a moment of anguish on Monday night. Tuesday morning, I got a response that basically said, “No, you don’t need to come in because of this. What you’re feeling is utterly justified and there is nothing wrong with you.” Is it a mark of privilege when you need some sort of permission or blessing to feel justifiable pain, and let it spill over onto people you love? Or is it a mark of how incredibly screwed up we are?

My project manager comes into the office with his usual greeting: “How you doin’?” “Sad.” “Don’t even get me started, yo.”

Tomorrow we’re supposed to give thanks. Today I’m sort of trying to gather up the pieces of my frame of gratitude, and impose that frame on all this. It’s a better perspective than despair, I suppose.

In the meantime, I’m trying to come up with civil rights/feminist/human rights organizations to donate to. That’s the Christmas present I want Bernardo to give me. Suggestions welcome.

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