Now What?
Who am I when everything I value is at risk?
I remember 2016.
I remember sitting in my grad school cohort of queer, AFAB people as we silently stared at our teacher.
He (wisely) said we didn’t have to do anything that day. We could just sit.
And so, we sat.
Eventually, we started talking.
It started with disbelief, anger, and resolve. And then, it became just another Wednesday class. Life continued. We didn’t know how long it would last, but it continued all the same.
Funny enough, I didn’t always consider myself a writer—that’s a new label for me. Even in grad school, where I was studying writing, I didn’t call myself a writer.
And yet, here I am. Writing to cope. Writing to understand. Writing to do something other than sit and stare at social media and fear the worst.
It’s hard today. It’s been hard for a while, but it’s a new level of hard. I feel as if I’ve been doused in cold water, as if my complacency has been ripped away like a childhood blanket.
But I’m here. And that is not something I’m willing to change.
When I went to bed last night, I was worried. When I woke up, I lay in bed, trying to decide if I should look at my phone or just…not. The ceiling has interesting patterns, after all. But the cats needed feeding and the world continued on outside my room. I could rejoin it, or rot in bed. When I finally looked, my heart sank—but I didn’t cry. Eventually, I got out of bed, fed the cats, made coffee, and sat down at my computer.
So, what do we do now? Oh, who am I kidding, what do I do now? In 2016, I wasn’t out. I hadn’t started figuring out my gender. I hadn’t come out of the closet (though I at least knew, as did a few close friends, that I was asexual). That’s different now. I’m a proud she/they… and sometimes him. I’m loudly asexual and loudly panromantic—and I’ve stopped caring if people don’t understand that. They aren’t my people.
Still—what if the worst happens? What if Atwood’s Gilead is the future of our home?
I’m lucky—I still pass as WASP, cis, and straight. I’m in a straight-passing marriage. My privilege runs deep and is easily seen.
Blending in won’t be hard—I’ve been doing it for so long already.
I have no uterus. If the worst happens, I can’t get pregnant anymore. My body would be pretty useless to them.
If the worst happens, that means two things: death or servitude. And, let’s be real here: I’m too soft to last long in servitude…and maybe too mouthy.
If the worst happens, then why not fight back? If the worst happens, I’m doomed anyway, so why not go down kicking, screaming, and clawing at eyes (and other soft parts)?
In truth, we still have time.
The worst might be coming, but it’s not here. Yet.
So, we fight. We mobilize. We get the folks in danger to safety and the rest of us fight.
The fight doesn’t have to be violence. For those of you who know me, you know that I can throw a punch about as well as a panda can fuck.
A recent meme has been making the rounds, talking about hope as something tough—not a fragile, delicate thing. It’s gritty, smeared in blood and grime. It’s been knocked to the ground more times than it can count, and yet it still gets back up.
That is where I am. Even if I wanted to fight, I know myself well enough to know I couldn’t. I’ve fired guns and I hate them. I’ve tried to punch and it’s been laughably bad. I don’t do well with hurting people and meaning it. That’s not who I am, as much as I may wish to change that and be the badass action hero.
But what can I do?
And what can I do well?
I can write.
I can protect.
I can work.
I can ally.
I can mobilize.
I can research.
I can do good and uplift those who need it.
So that’s what I’ll do.
It’s time to get back to work. I’m sorry that I stopped in the first place.
KJ Thompson - Nov. 5th, 2024