I’ve been reading a book. Afrofuturist Caribbean sci-fi called Tè Mawon. It’s in French, and in Créole. I don’t expect any of you to read it, and I’m not going to summarise it here. I just wanted to say this book resonated with me in one big, one giant regard.
Hope.
Yes, hope. The hope of these characters to recover the land of their ancestors, locked under concrete and pollution. The hope I keep in my heart to live in peace with my neighbours. The hope we all have for a better future for our children, or our nieces and nephews. Hope. That big bad word I’ve avoided for so long, the word I couldn’t pronounce for years, that brought tears to my eyes whenever I thought about its meaning. The word we use without thinking about it, that is omnipresent in our lives. “Hope you slept well”, “hope everything goes okay”, “hope you get out early today”.
I’ve been hopeless. I’ve done things out of hopelessness that I hope none of you who read me will ever have to do. I know what it’s like to look at a calendar, to see tomorrow and say “why? Why even bother?”
I know, all too well, what it feels like to want to quit. What depression does when it arrives in your life with its giant blanket of lies and the pillow it puts on your face to take your last breath away. I almost know what it’s like to die. Because I’ve lived, and I’ve lived for way too long without hope.
What happened last week in the USA was devastating for many people, some of whom I know and care about. Some of them are terrified, for their future, for their loved ones, for everyone in marginalised communities. They’re afraid for their healthcare. They’re afraid for the well being of trans kids. Some are even afraid they’ll never be able to leave the country. And that’s all right. Really, it is. It’s okay to be afraid. It makes perfect sense. But it isn’t fear that will liberate us.
It is hope.
Hope for the sun to rise tomorrow above the concrete and the dirt, hope for the moon to shine tonight over the fields and the tiny houses that so many feel stuck in. Hope is what made gods, hope is what will make Men.
With hope, you can write. Like I do, right now, on my laptop, in a chair that is way too small even for me, with fingers that are shaky from cold and anxiety. I write to you all to say : don’t lose before you’ve lost. Don’t fear. Fight. Fight with whatever tools you have. Give food to foodbanks. Give money or time to orgs. Write for those who are losing hope. Write, draw, art in every way you can. Raise your voice and your skills to serve the only thing that can give us a tomorrow to look forward to.
Not enough for you? Too passive? Well guess what. Passivity is how I’ve survived. I am 32, had 25 rapists, 2 abortions, 1 miscarriage, 2 near death experiences, 6 months of homelessness, 1 year of physical abuse. And way more. And what got me through all of that was words, books, art, compassion, and hope.
So what I need you to do is keep honing your skills and use them. Learn as much as you can and then share it. Make art. Make love. Make compassion. Make hope.
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