Some kind of flux
notes on new witnessings
Things are changing. They’ve been changing for some time, and one could even say they always have been. But right now, something’s definitely in flux.
For one, there’s the fact that whatever I went through internally in October, as I’m sure a lot of the world did and continues to go through, can’t be seen as an island in time in which I was disillusioned. That disillusionment, that lifting of the veil, it carries forward. A boy in my class told me that he doesn’t eat McDonald’s and KFC anymore but after Israel stops he will eat them again. While I was impressed by the 7 year old’s political acuity, I did try to explain to him that the boycott should ideally continue forever. On another day, I thought about what this meant for me. It has meant changing who and what I watch and consume, and also how I feel about entire categories of existence/thinking/being. There’s so much I just don’t watch or take seriously anymore. There’s also an increased lack of desire to pretend. There’s the entire reevaluation of what I foresee for a future version of myself, where I would like to place myself geographically. While that’s all well and good, what that means is a slow shifting of thought patterns. Something about how 70% of our thoughts are regurgitated from yesterday, and yesterday, and yesterday. Where does that leave us? Unchanged for the most part. So when there is reevaluation, there is the initial shock to the system and even a sense of liberation, but there is also the beginning of what comes next - new neural pathways, new ways of moving in the world. While exciting, this is uncharted territory.
I’ve been finding myself surprised at the fact that the kids in my class have parents who care for them. Care that I can see packed into their lunchboxes, or in the completion of homework that I can tell was prodded by a patient mother. I haven’t really been able to tell why I’m surprised. Perhaps, as a non-parent and therefore maybe unjustified observer, I’d been harbouring this impression of the modern parent as somewhat neglectful. And there is evidence of that in class, too. Violence and rudeness and a sense of too much content consumption, if there can even be a base level of ‘recommended’ content consumption for 6 year olds. But then I see care, a dad leaving a note to take his child home early, and I look around at all these kids doing their PE display and again I’m reminded of the vastness of the city and the homes and worlds within it and I ask myself: where do you come from? Cue song.
I also recognize the many realities within my classroom. There’s me, downward-looking unless I’m kneeling and staring right into their little faces, doing my best to crack the tough nuts that are the distracted and defiant ones. Then there’s the actual distracted and defiant ones, absolutely living in worlds of their own. I would like to think I’m important, but they have so many other people in their lives; mothers, sisters, uncles, maids, grandparents, Urdu teachers, cousins. There are so many worlds within theirs. There was a time I was 6 and on the other end of things as I experience them today and that thought makes me want to tread ever so lightly.
I wonder still why I’m surprised that care exists in their lives. And it doesn’t take me long to think of the children who no longer receive that care, of the parents who no longer have to opportunity to care for theirs. One morning I was stirring my coffee and thinking of Palestinian children and parents, thoughts I’ve been avoiding for weeks on weeks, and I was surprised that I felt tears. I thought I was done feeling it, that I had successfully entered and stationed myself in flight mode. But I have not. I drive home and the fact that I’m sure this road will be intact by the time I reach the end of it feels like reason enough to count my blessings. That I am 26 years old and still very much need my mother.
I don’t know what it means to not feel close to people I once felt close to. I don’t know if it means I’m creating a life of solitude and therefore lonesomeness. I don’t know what everyone is experiencing in their worlds. I don’t know when I will learn to speak my mind when I feel the feelings in my body. I don’t know if my vocal chords are going to become stronger. I don’t know what my rituals are. I don’t know what I want to read. Right now, I’m trying to read Scattered Minds by Gabor Mate, a book about ADD, and I keep getting distracted.
All is well, still. We are looking after a kitten whose coat is very much like Jimmy’s. It’s February and it’s starting to get warmer. Mogli is no longer acting like she is dying. I’m enjoying being more experimental and playful in my sketchbook. I’m enjoying making characters out of kids I know. I’m enjoying the mindless productivity of the brilliant handicraft that is crochet. I have no neat conclusions, so I will leave you with a song.
<3