Hiiii, I’m back! I’m so back. I’m back with this newsletter which I really want to be weekly. The goal is to be weekly but I can’t promise to be a consistent human because I’m not a robot. Even robots malfunction but anywayssss, this newsletter will include my feelings on one piece of the news, my feelings about a life experience, or things that my feelings make me write. On today’s newsletter I share my feelings about AmeriKKKa building an ebola healthcare facility only for Americans on Kenyan land stolen by colonizers, my experience with cops in the dc metro, and a short story I’m working on (fiction). Onto the feelings…
The so-called United States of America is building an ebola healthcare center for Americans on stolen Kenyan land. The United States of America, a country that loves genocide and slavery so much that it’s getting ready to celebrate two hundred and fifty fucking years of murder harder than I celebrate finding an edible between my couch cushions, is building a healthcare facility in another country for American citizens.
Me finding an edible is worth more glory and reverence than celebrating this country because exalting this country is literally the worship of the DEVIL. If you believe in my mother’s description of the Devil. The Devil to my mother is someone whose sole purpose for existence is to destroy everyone’s joy because that brings the destroyer joy. Which is why she would call me Satan often. I was a terrible child; I’m not sorry about it because none of my terribleness involved murdering millions of Indigenous people, stealing their land, then enslaving millions of Black people so white men could do whatever boring shit they like to do .
Okay, so I think my mother meant the devil is a spectrum. On one spectrum is the United States of America and the other end of the spectrum is me.
The reason why the United States of America is building a treatment facility on stolen land in KENYA to treat only americans is the same reason why Amerikkka is celebrating genocide: THEY ARE NOT FUCKING SORRY ABOUT BEING EVIL!
They will never be sorry because they love this shit! Who are they? The ruling class, you know Jeff Bezos and his shitty friends who make all of us go to work so they can buy shitty yachts. People like Elon Musk who celebrate their first trillion by encouraging a pogrom. Seriously? A few people torture and enslave us so they can live the most unimaginative lives. Proving that if your life is built on murdering and exploiting people, you lose your humanity and imagination of how beautiful life can be. That is why capitalism does everything to destroy our imagination including making terrible tv shows, drawing the line on what’s possible. The media will tell us things like, “see, we can’t afford to give everyone housing because the economy will plummet”.
THEN LET THE FUCKING ECONOMY PLUMMET. What is the purpose of having a system that says, “sorry, we gotta sacrifice a lot of you so Lieutenant Fuck Face can eat caviar for dinner and we can build a healthcare facility on stolen land so that we can keep doing imperialism”?
On Juneteenth I was floating on the high that only 100 mg can give you, my celebration eviscerated by over a dozen state enforcers surrounding terrified children, children loved by someone, loved by me even though I was newly acquainted. How could I not love these beautiful Black children attempting to exist in a state that hated them for existing, a state that sends goons to pry them from childhood joy, holding them as their ancestors were held centuries ago.
I screeched to a halt at the bottom of the escalator and yelled out, yo, what the fuck before forcing my soul to calm at this sight of another violation on our collective soul, reminding myself as I cried for these children that this is not about me. As much as I would love to ask the seven foot stormtrooper how do you prepare yourself in the morning to go to war against tweens? Aren’t you embarrassed that bullying children is literally your job? Tell him his ancestors would be disappointed and his great grandmother definitely hates him. Tell him that his barber also hates him and that’s why his edge up was crooked, was about satisfying my urge to burn the state to the ground, which this couldn’t be about right now. Right now it was about making sure these children got home safely. Whatever “safely” means in a world where their existence was marked as a crime.
I started recording the cops as a few more of them poured in including the National Guard and US Marshalls to join the FBI and DC police who were already there, as if these five teens were part of Magneto’s squad of teenage mutants, which I wish they were. Fuck Professor Xavier, he should have let those children burn the world that hates them.
The police noticed my presence and my partner’s presence (he is white). I call out my husband’s whiteness because I have noticed the difference in the police’s demeanor towards me with his presence. I always remember the day when the superintendent called the cops on our first tenant’s meeting in Flatbush. When I ran to meet the cops by the building’s doors, I noticed the cops hesitated at the entrance. I almost drummed my chest in victory only to feel my husband’s hand on my shoulder. The cops stopped because they saw him. He wasn’t there when the cops broke my teeth…so yeah things are different when he is there.
Nonetheless, seeing my husband and I all of a sudden turned the stormtroopers into caring state agents whose concern for the teens drove them to surround the children with guns on their hips. What is more caring than threatening the life of a child? Boomer parents, do not answer this question. A cop approached me and said some nonsense which I will not repeat here because I don’t like spreading lies if I can help it. Sometimes I do spread unsubstantiated facts like Donald Trump Jr doesn’t have a soul, but I don’t think that this is a thing that needs research. Tell Nancy Drew to sit this one out, we all know the truth.
My response to the cop’s lies was to state what you are doing is scary. He acted indignant (give this man an oscar). I said cops kill Black kids, that’s why I’m standing here. The cop sneered at me and when he tried to speak again I told him I don’t speak to cops. Usually I would oink after that statement but then again my goal here was to get the children home. The sneering cop yelled you have paparazzi to one of the cops who was now putting on a full blown one act play of a loving cop trying to save the youth from themselves.
Eventually the cops let the children go, we followed the children up the escalator after I asked if they wanted us to walk out with them, the cops were behind us. We stood on the platform with the kids and the stormtroopers until the subway arrived and the children walked into the subway. I finally let out a heavy breath. I was relieved, angry, sad and other feelings which a geriatric millennial would need an emotional wheel to describe. My gen z friend got me a geriatric millennial sticker for my birthday and I will now and forever refer to myself as a geriatric millennial.
Her shoes were shiny, her pants were navy, crisp, freshly starched. The jacket lay on her body as if it was placed to conceal her real identity, not to encase her body in warmth. She smiled warmly as I riffled through the mountain of clothing wondering how we lived in a society filled with such abundance that a table could be covered with unwanted clothing, while simultaneously manufactured scarcity pervaded all of us, placing some of us behind a table and others in front of the table shoring up survival goods.
“How often are you here?” she asked, glancing at the food table, the sign above before settling her gaze back on me. It seemed as if she was studying me or I wanted to believe she was studying me. I wanted to be important enough for her to study me. I noticed her walking out of the car, tucking her white shirt into her jacket as she walked over to our weekly distribution. Something in my brain screamed, cop, she’s a fucking cop. I wanted her to think I mattered because that meant what we did mattered.
The state only sent their enforcers out when significant care emerged to threaten the state’s insistence that the only possibility was uncaring. If this woman was indeed a cop, it was proof that my life mattered. That my existence, dependent on the exploitation of others, could still chafe the systems of oppression by a small act of resistance of finding a onesie small enough to fit a one year old. “Will this work?” I asked the other woman who stood patiently in front of me holding an empty grocery bag. The woman smiled and nodded as she reached out to claim the onesie.
“We are here once a week,” I responded to the woman with the shiny shoes. “We always need food and clothing,” I added. She nodded, looked at the sign again, then walked away. I watched her as she got into her car and drove away.
Feel the News is fully supported by you the readers! To support my labor, please become a paying subscriber or please buy me a coffee. It was my birthday on June 13th so consider your support my belated birthday gift!
❤️
Your favorite anarchist comedian/poet/performer/person who takes naps/person who eats edibles.
Marcela
P.S. Please cop watch! If anyone knows a good magazine on copwatching, please share the link.
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