The Space Between
I’ve seen a lot of people indicating that they are feeling restless right now, impatiently waiting for this week to be over so we can finally be done with this never-ending election cycle and finally learn our fate. I feel differently tho, not minding existing in this liminal space a bit longer, knowing that whatever happens next week, there is no going back to how things were. Not that I necessarily want to go “back,” but it’s scary to step into the unknown. We are living in a time that will be written about in history books (if they allow it to be), an era that probably will be interesting to study but chaotic to live through.
It’s hard to keep up with it all, hard to stay centered at a time when so many people are shouting opinions and “truths,” when the anger and the fear and the excitement is electric, buzzing through the air and our phones as we scroll through the never-ending hot takes and somber warnings and condescending rants and desperate pleas. I tap my screen in an aimless morse code and it produces new results each time: poll numbers that offer no insight into our future; a white shroud stained almost purple with blood; a white woman telling me that a vote for anyone but Trump is racist; a woman 10 years younger than me informing me of the latest saga in her “curly girlie hair journey”; a collection of homemade and store-bought Halloween costume reveals; a black woman telling me voting for any industry candidate is supporting a broken imperialist system. I tear my eyes from the screen and look outside, see that the leaves on the sugar maple outside my window are finally dying, bursting into a brilliant splash of yellow as they shed themselves from this Earth.
I drove through Kensington the other day as I made my way to orientation for my upcoming practicum internship for grad school. Driving under the El where the streets are perpetually shadowed people linger at every block—some scattered in small groups, reviewing their collective bounty of cigarettes and stashes and needles, some waiting at the corner, looking beyond me, through me, waiting for something that may never appear. I spent the morning learning about the ever-changing local drug supply, making it harder to reverse overdoses, before spending an hour making kits to ensure safe use—alcohol pads and clean metal “cooking” tins, tourniquets, and saline packs. After, I meet my supervisor to eat pierogis in Port Richmond, to talk about how I can best help once my semester begins. We talk about how much has changed with their outreach since the new mayor was elected, how hellbent she is on “cleaning the streets” in an effort to redevelop the neighborhood for hungry investors.
The conversation eventually/inevitably leads to the election. “I’ve never voted before,” she admits between bites of kielbasa, “I’ve never seen the point. But this year I’m considering it. I’d register and write in Jason Kelce. He’d be a better option than any of these assholes. But it doesn’t matter anyway—nothing out here changes, no matter who’s in charge.”
Around us, the restaurant erupts into cheers, patrons in jerseys and costumes celebrating the latest Eagles score.