You forgo the use of second voice. You step into the “I” and reacquaint yourself with your life, as defined by the blend of past and future. You step into the present, and reintroduce yourself to intimacy.
Is this how it happens? Do you fake it until you make it or, at least, until you work up the nerve to open the door, and invite yourself into your own life?
I remember seconds between a moment of silence and the moment one of the officers began talking to me–in that space, I thought of three scenarios: I was going home; I was going to jail; I was going to be shot & killed.
The trick to living here, if I’m in any position to offer advice on this matter, is to know who you are.
I swore I would never do this. I told my lover, I would never write a reactionary thinkpiece in the wake of another police murder, that I would never write to the beat of another black body banged against the pavement, lifeless, blood pooled. But here we are.
Has this been my home for the past two years? There are memories here, ghosts under the bed, fights trapped inside the walls.
There is the half capsule, the whole capsule, and the oval blue pill in my hand. The cocktail is meant to boost my dopamine and serotonin (my energy and “happy feelings,” respectively).
There is “coming out” and there is “I love this man.”
Before that night — or the curvature of that night, those fuzzy outlines once again — I cared. I cared about my family; I cared about my friends; I cared (too much) about my ex-lovers; I cared about the future. To care is to step outside of oneself, to face the cold blade of another human on guard because some other human hurt her years ago.
What Ms. Arfin — and perhaps, the generation depicted in Girls — lacks is a general understanding of history, of connection, to say nothing of perspective. Girls exists despite the fact that, in New York City, there are black people who are as rich, talented, and beautiful as the show’s stars.