Processing On The Go
Like all of us, I can’t stop thinking about Roe.
I wish I had enough depth of wisdom to have a meaningful or novel insight, but I’m too mad and sad and demoralized to take a step back for perspective. I told some friends that when the leak of the Supreme Court draft that would overturn Roe came out, my anger was a consuming fire; now I just feel numb, but not a neutral “I feel nothing” numb, more like the numb that comes when you’re being slowly suffocated under a pillow. Choosing to become a parent turned my life upside down, radically transformed my body in ways I’m still negotiating, disrupted all momentum in my career (or whatever you call this artists life), tore my already porous heart open and pulled every raw nerve to the surface of my skin. I would do it again and again to get this very wanted family life of chaotic joy, and with this deeply embodied knowledge, the idea of forced pregnancy and forced birth and forced parenthood makes my autonomic nervous system fire on all cylinders. My heart races, my stomach acid jumps to my throat, I want to run. Even situated in all the white/cis/straight relationship/financial privilege I am supported by, living in a state where the right to abortion is protected, and on and on, the panic comes quick. It is dehumanizing, cruel, and violent.
And I know the rest, as we all do. Of course, we keep acting: we protest, we vote in every single municipal election, we keep calling elected representatives to codify abortion access at the federal level, to expand and protect reproductive rights, gay & trans rights, voting rights, etc etc. Of course, we give money/resources/time to support the hard work of people who work full time to solve these problems, to provide direct support, to lobby more efficiently. Of course, we keep alive in our hearts a vibrant idealized future to work towards, with hope and action reinforcing each other as we collectively face this same old challenge at a new scale. Of course, we know that even as these white supremacist, authoritarian, and conspiratorial movements gain more ground, we know that we will always take care of each other, and take the necessary risks to support our community. I know in many parts of the country, places I grew up, places where I have beloved friends and family, this lack of abortion access has been the reality for years. We all need to dig in deeper with our friends and loved ones, weave our lives together more tightly, support with more care.
And also it makes me so mad when the grief of this moment is dismissed by pointing to all of these paths to changing this reality. I keep returning to a series of tweets by poet Hanif Abdurraquib:
I guess I get “don’t mourn, organize” as an overarching slogan but I have been struggling, especially the past couple of years, with telling angry/hurting folks not to mourn, or presenting the only options as “mourning or action” — many of us have been doing both, simultaneously. I have seen that on so many signs today when I was out and the past couple of days & I don’t want to demean folks, of course. But I’m actually increasingly concerned with the longstanding emotional/mental toll of living & fighting through the ever-present torrent of rage/anguish.
So I’m grieving. It’s been a hard week (/month/pandemic/6 years/etc). And also, looking at diary comics, nothing substantial in my daily life is changed. I have so much laundry to fold and kid birthday party details to iron out, summertime joy to create for my children and myself, friends to celebrate with and support through crises, and this dang book to write. And sometimes, without immediately understanding why, my heart races, my stomach acid jumps to my throat, and I want to run. The dissonance is disorienting.
Actually, this is what my book is about, at its core. Write what you know, right? “Monument” is about fully reckoning with the choice to survive by holding on to small-scale daily reality, while the weight and consequences of large-scale inaction haunt and loom literally on the horizon in the form of a giant earthworks monument. I wish reality would stop giving me so much material to work with.
Other Stuff:
I started reading Journal of a Solitude by May Sarton after a quick recommendation from genius cartoonist/artist & fellow book inhaler Jeremy Sorese, and oh no do you ever have that feeling that actually your entire interior life must not be that unique or individual because someone else is writing your exact thoughts? It’s surreal. I’m enjoying it a lot. Maybe that’s narcissistic.
Do you already support Summer Pierre on Patreon? I do and you should too. Hey Summer, I was going to write this as a fan email to you today after your beautiful post about your mom, but consider this an open letter: Summer is one of my all-time favorite contemporary cartoonists; I think of her as one of my mental pantheon of ideal readers when I am working. Her comics are so beautiful, so honestly observed, so thoughtful in approach and execution. I’m such a fan!!
What are We Doing With Our Hair these days? I’m at a fucking loss. I grew it very long (semi-intentional-experiment, semi-because-of-low-key-depression) after Ada was born following a full decade of bathroom buzz cuts, and then last summer I did a “yay I’m vaccinated and seeing people again” mid-length chop that I hoped would read as Blondie in the Heart of Glass video, but I’m not a gorgeous, aloof waifish punk, I’m a cheerful, soft middle-aged midwestern mom with frizzy hair and a light mustache, so it just didn’t give me the vibe I was looking for. Right now it’s just long enough to pull into a sad little George Washington ponytail and it isn’t cute. What to DO!
Diary comics: