YOUR HANDS ARE MY ONLY MAP
In a plexiglass gate reflection, what do you see?
CAN I THRIVE IN THE ABSENCE OF ALL THE THINGS I THOUGHT I NEEDED?
Unreachable as I think of you—touching you with my eyes, watching you with my hands.
I awoke the other morning with the sense that the moon, shining through my unobstructed window, was watching me—not with light, but with knowing. Its gaze carried the quiet weight of last night’s dreams, as if it had borne witness to what I would rather forget. A stillness wide with some kind of meaning. I was certain the moon had pressed its face against the glass, peering in, both distant and aware. It watched not with light, but with memory.
Life slows to a crawl only to remind you that even stillness has something to say—that every second could be a lifetime. To second-guess your way forward is to unravel the thread of all that brought you here. You could say fate plays no part in our lives—and some find that to be true—but I am not one of some. You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from.
My heart aches today. And yesterday. And tomorrow. Because I love you with what in me is unfinished. I love you with what in me is still changing.
THE EVOLVING POLITICS OF A 29-YEAR-OLD
Everything you need is locked behind a plexiglass gate—essential items: food, baby formula, diapers, clothing. To approach this reality with contempt is necessary—contempt for corporate greed, and empathy for those whose needs are obstructed by a barrier like this.
These thoughts run through my mind as an older Walmart employee walks me to the register, my 6-pack of Hanes shirts in hand. She passes them to a much younger self-checkout guard—just a kid, maybe 16. He hands them to me and tells me I’m good to go. I slide a 2-pack of black Sharpies underneath the shirts and scan everything in one smooth motion. Even after all that, I still managed to steal.
So it begs the question: what’s the point of the plexiglass gate?
Democracy is on the ballot. Vote blue no matter who. Red wave. Common-sense politics. Spend enough time online and these phrases start to rot in your ears—echoed by naive do-gooders and bad-faith actors alike, spewed like verbal diarrhea. Meanwhile, media pundits scream about the lawlessness of big cities, feeding you sensational fragments—isolated incidents blown into nationwide phenomena.
But they should be talking about me.
They don’t describe the unassuming, white man standing in the self-checkout line, figuring out how to pay the least and take the most. They don’t mention how I’m calculating, always calculating—how to shave off dollars, how to beat the systems that were never built for working people in the first place.
Not because it’s thrilling. Not because it’s fun. Because if I don’t do it, I don’t eat. Because survival demands it. Because the systems built to protect us are more invested in protecting profits.
I don’t fit the narrative. I am not a symbol. I am not a talking point. I am the actual problem—at least, according to them. So I preach class consciousness like it’s gospel. It’s the only form of repentance I know for the sins of retail crime.
Something is shifting in this country. You can feel it. Like a swelling bruise under the skin. A quiet revolt. It’s too early to say what it will become—but maybe, just maybe, the hard work of the many is starting to pay off. One can only hope.
And I wonder: is the plexiglass gate a deterrent? Or is it a mirror?
I'm 29 now, and I've always been grounded in my material reality. I was always able to see this place for what it is. I've always understood the usually quiet—yet always loud—violence1 of capitalism: what it demands, what it erases, and what it expects me to become for survival. My politics haven’t always been perfect. I haven’t always been a picture-perfect Marxist. I could read more. I could be more involved. I could be doing a lot more.
My friend Monica presses me about this often, about all the things I avoid with many excuses. Even a bar regular, whom I privately (and never out loud) call Trotsky Nick2, calls me out on my laziness and questions my commitment to the struggle. Maybe my 30s will be my age of action. I have some plans for ways to get involved, but if the FBI is reading, I’ll keep it locked away in my mind for now.3
This piece of writing was started some time ago, but it was finished recently, so please ignore the lack of commentary on current events. I’ll get to those later.
AND I’M STANDING ON A PLATFORM
I find it cringe to call capitalism violent, but that doesn’t make it less true.
Nick works and organizes for the Revolutionary Communists of America, which is a Trotskyist rebranding of an older group. The party line puts mine in contradiction, but we are fighting for the same goals, so I like to support by buying his newspapers and magazines.
Hi FBI, my plans are not violent. I was alluding to more involvement in organizing with local groups. Please don’t come to my house.