Like anyone with the ability to consume media, the past week has been a blur. Of hate. Of intolerance. Of injustice. Of ugly divides that separate so many people. As an American, it’s especially challenging, and as an ex-pat, nothing short of surreal. To believe my home country was somehow at its lowest, and knowing that limit might not ever exist is disheartening. And no, my struggles from the safety of a villa in Dubai aren’t anywhere near what BIPOC, shop owners, or anyone related to the protests are going through.
As I told an author friend this week, it seems utterly ridiculous to be working on a novel where a bunch of privileged white kids have little dramas and humorous scenes on a fictional television show. Even at 1,000 words a day, it’s difficult to concentrate on anything. And why write such a fluffy story at all?
So, I’ve donated. I’ve posted where my network is the largest and within the past hour I called out friends (privately) for perpetuating stereotypes. I’ll continue to do so, but to what end? Because, is there going to be an end? My voice feels so incredibly small in the universe, and I’m supposed to have words, but I can’t seem to find the right way to put them together to express myself.