I hate writers and writing

I hate hate hate it.

I have never wanted to be a writer.
I have always wanted to be a writer.

I want to write, and be read so that people get the value of my message. I want them to know that their experience is real and righteous and valid and free. I want to share that humanity with them, growing together in a glorious melange of mess.

But writers are a mess, and writing is a mess.

I don’t want to be one more writer. Writing the same thing written before because duh, my experiences are human. Utterly commonplace and ordinary, regular as everyone else. I don’t want to be that self-focused inwardly looking yet somehow show-off of supposed writing prowess. The world doesn’t need one more superior sumbitch tellin’ us all about their insignificant visions of some ethereal feeling on life, the universe and everything.

I don’t want to occupy some sort of moral high ground based on my sense of self twisted by a role, an ideal, an expectation of what “writer” is. I don’t want to bear my soul in the realest and most honest of ways to be rejected. Told it isn’t distracting enough to be picked up let alone respected enough to be read with an open mind and heart.

I don’t want to be read and find out that no, I’m not being understood and in fact misunderstood, and in fact understood less for all the more words I pump out, trying to find just the right way to be believed.

I want to be the kind of writer who doesn’t care if she eats tomorrow because writing is more important than that, but I’m scared. That level of failure yet success in the same breath would be all the harder to accept for once again seeing that being a writer or not has little to do with all that.

I already have to fight the battle to accept in myself that so few people like me and yet I am counseled to keep being myself, praised for being “strong” when all it is, is an inability to be someone else who could be more liked, heard, respected or celebrated. It’s not strength, it’s just being trapped.

I don’t want to be trapped by the idea of “writer”, the idea of my place as that person who writes without praise. Because I already am that person. I already write without praise. If I do that in front of the world then that same failure magnifies, intensifies, and becomes real. Then it is my efforts, my writing or my insipirations to write that really are failing, and not just the failure of never starting. Then, it would be real.


Now I understand…

Now I understand why people

hurt themselves
drum up drama in their circles
act out in public
act superior
kill themselves
hurt others to make themselves feel better
all say they hate people, to other people
flock to the safety of anonymity
“ghost” other people
like fads and fashions
all want to be leaders but hate responsiblity
thank god for successes but not failures
act childish when they’re not children anymore
act adult when they’re not yet grown
lash out, act out, push, rage, cry and scream
change their minds
lecture each other
write poetry
stay out all night
play hooky
give up
branch out
move away and start over
say they want to “help people”, until it gets real
get in over their heads
get married after knowing each other less than 2 months
divorce after 35 years of marriage
have kids, don’t have kids, hated kids but now have them, have them and hate them
talk so brightly of dreams and plans
hate change, love change, can’t change, want to change, are changeing, will change…

Vision and Leadership

There’s a lot of folks struggling to break systems that define and limit us. That’s good. Let’s own the fact that dissatisfaction is NOT the end. It is the beginning.

Our dissatisfaction must be coupled with a vision of what we DO want, and leadership should be pioneering new ways to achieve what we want. We must define and articulate what we want, build what we want, and only pause if someone gets in our way.

When we protest, speak out, and fight oppression, we are not asking to be given what we want. We are telling them we’re coming to get it.

The price has been paid

If you want the struggle of minorities to be described in a manner that is eloquent, articulate, elaborate, comprehensive, appealing, concise, detailed, measured, or beautiful, there is no shortage of articles, research projects, art, videos, poetry, prose, non-fiction, historical fiction, music, biographies… they fill wide swaths in your local libraries and are listed in online directories, reading lists, school curricula and more.

If you have been exposed to the internet, and I’m sure you have, then all the words you want to hear and those you don’t as well have already been said. Every possible delivery system to describe the ways that inequity has hurt us before and right now, to this very moment today, has been laid out in no uncertain terms, unequivocally, and with certainty, for generations.

Those kind and gentle ways of asking not to be maimed and killed, mistreated and robbed, all the begging and pleading, have all been used til they are but tattered rags and still, there are some who ask us again to repeat it “nicely”… saying that our complaints are not worded kindly enough.

We’ve asked politely.

No one owes politeness to ABUSERS.

We will rail, and scream, and tear this system down. We will annihilate the traitors against humanity and we will show them that we were nice enough for long enough, but that never meant we were weak. We are that much stronger, that much more determined, and that much more committed because we have suffered at the hands of those who would dare to say that we should not turn back on them a tiny fraction of their transgressions in return.

I will not bow down to the sentiment that a still boat is peaceful.
“…peace is not merely the absence of tension, it is the presence of justice” (MLK Jr.) and we will not pretend that avoiding confrontation will resolve issues of such a massive scale.

Maybe this is some kind of manifesto or maybe it’s just letting off steam, but I have discovered that the intensity of my youth has never diminished and I am glad for that because this struggle is too important for me to sit by and watch, too huge to minimize or let slide, and I can’t in good conscience spend another minute nodding my head to keep a friend while I sit back and think to myself “they genuinely value some human beings less than others”.

So I won’t be nodding and smiling and agreeing as I did for some years past. Because to see people I wanted to like and be liked by say and mean these things turned me into a hateful, angry, bitter and unrepentant bulldog. It comes out when I experience the cognitive dissonance of people managing to rationalize inhumane behavior.

I despise the word “deserve” because I feel that no human is in a position to judge that for another. And if they did, we’d all fall short of what we should be.

This is as kind as I’ll ever be, but I’ve already been kind. More kind than an abuser ever deserves, because it is not for me to determine how deserving they are and because being kind is as much about our own humanity as that of the recipient of kindness.

That moral and ethical obligation for us to be kind and measured, reasonable and mature, if ever there was one, was long ago met many times over.

Next time, we may not be so nice, and if you don’t like it, then suck it up buttercup, cuz that’s what we are told in response to violations of human rights, and if you don’t see how amazingly horrifying that is, then perhaps your humanity has been so severely damaged that you might actually believe that those who abuse power and privilege are somehow trustworthy. That is the essence of how cancerous humans retain power and exercise it over others, which you enable through inaction and in so doing bankrupt the very parts of yourself that you value highest in life.

Don’t sell humanity short, we have it inside ourselves to see inequity for the wildly destructive force that it is, and we will find a way to stop it, be it kindly or otherwise.