originally written January 21, 2017

They started marching hours before I was even awake. They filled the Mall in DC with more people than had been there for the inauguration the day before. They came with homemade signs, with hands over hearts, with strong words and big smiles. They came in a throbbing sea of pink. They wore “pussy hats” knitted by hand.

Fear is sucking my brain dry.

But complaining would be selfish. When so many have died, and so many have jobs infinitely more dangerous than mine. They are the ones doing something important. They are saving lives.

Maybe it would be different if I thought my job was actually essential. If I were doing my part to help the community. If there was any way I was earning the noble title of “frontline worker”.

But the truth is I’m not helping anyone in the least.

Jellyfish have been spotted in Venice is a “marvel”. Should we reconsider the structure of jobs and commuting in cities is a “difficult subject”. It’s easy to say Captain America is your favourite superhero because he’s willing to make sacrifices for the greater good. It’s harder to do that yourself when you can just buy a t-shirt and novelty mug with his face and move on.

This isn’t my home, I just live here. Such an ungrateful and selfish thing to say. So privileged. It bears no reflection on the perfectly lovely suburban address to which my mail is delivered. Nor on those who reside within its walls who are more of a home than a building could ever be.

For the better part of 25 years I’ve lived in a place I don’t belong.

“Hey, how are you?” is meant to be answered with “Good thanks, and you?” It’s part of the social contract. A polite acknowledgement that both parties have their own series of events unfolding and both will suspend whatever demons lurk below momentarily.

It is the hand shake of conversation. And much like actual hand shaking it has been made irrelevant by 2020.