Tag: politics

• Curiosity

  I was walking through Washington Square Park today. The sun is bright. The light is shining through the trees. The leaves shimmer, glowing yellow around the edges and condensing to a dark green mass in the center. They undulate and people lounge in their shade, drinking coffee and having private conversations.

  In the center of the path is a woman with a stand and a sign that reads “23 days until the election”. She is selling memorabilia that celebrates American democracy. Badges with George Washington’s face on, a keychain of Ronald Regan, and small mock constitutions. 

  I walk past her to my friend who is sitting on the grass. It is my college roommate. We met on the first day. Standing on a lawn playing a game to break the ice between all the kids that arrived for international orientation. He showed up late and as soon as I saw him I knew we would be friends. He told me about a trip to India he had been on over the summer. The sort of trip where rich kids from Europe go to  “help” the “needy”. Maybe, the rich kids feel helpful. Definitely, they know it will be good for their college applications.

  Fred was honest about this and made fun of himself for going on the trip. Then told a story of playing football with children that suffered from polio. Some were missing arms and legs, but still could run and kick the ball. Fred played with them for hours, sweating in the Indian humidity. Nobody kept track of the score. Eventually they all collapsed under a Jamun tree next to the dry pitch, drinking tea and gasping contentedly.

  Now Fred is sitting on the grass of Washington Square Park with his girlfriend, and her friends from college. They are sitting on a pink blanket, Fred has a coffee for me and his girlfriend has got me a bagel. They shuffle to one side to make space for me between his girlfriend and one of her friends I have never met before.

  As an outsider of the group I sit for a while and let them speak.

  “I am going to my 10 year high school reunion next week, hopefully I don’t get too drunk,” says one of the friends.

  “I always get too drunk, they are fucking nerve racking ,” replies the other.

  “Yep , at the last one I got hammered. Talked to my ex-boyfriend, went home and lay on the couch eating trail mix and telling mum how much I missed him”

  The whole group laugh. They clearly know each other well, happy to be vulnerable and I am thankful their ease is not disturbed by my presence.

  “I hear he might be about the break up with his girlfriend?”

  “Yeah, apparently so.”

  “Do you think your mum would mind if you bought him home after the reunion?”

  “She would honestly be thrilled”. The whole group broke into another round of laughter.

  I took my chance to join the conversation. I ask them where they went to high school. Philadelphia they reply. I jokingly wish her luck in the pursuit of the man of her dreams and say I will be following up with Fred to hear the outcome.

  My eyes drift to the the woman selling a Barack Obama postcard at the stand. A few more people are now surrounding her, inspecting the coins and badges. The shadow of a tree has swung round and half cover her table, the dark outline of the leaves rippling over the red table cloth. The woman is smiling as she takes the cash from her customer’s hand.

  “Flags are just so ugly,” someone in our group chirps.

  “Why red, red white and blue? Such jarring colors. Why not more pastels?”

  “Agreed there are so few good flags. The German one, three blocks of color, so ugly”

  “Yeah but they have had to change it a few times,” chimes in Fred. “Used to be red, white and black, then the Nazis changed it and then it got changed again.”

  “Oh yeah, that whole thing. You know if someone is trying to change your flag you are in trouble,” jokes someone.

  “Wouldn’t be surprised if there is something about it in Project 2025”. Everyone chuckles.

  This is the only time we touch on politics. I know Fred is more sympathetic to Trump than the rest of the group, made up of young women, are likely to be. The conversation swiftly moves on. I am grateful.

  For a while I have been struggling with how to discuss politics. Part of me wants to ignore it completely, which I do with new company. But another part feels a duty to talk about. If I ignore it, am I complicit? What if the Nazi’s only got to power because people didn’t want to have awkward dinner party chats? Or protestants only got burnt in 16th Century England because it was bad etiquette to suggest otherwise? And how do I even know “what the right side of history” is?

  The truth is I am scared of Trump winning. America is becoming a more nationalistic country. Hostile to outsiders. Pessimism is the driving political force. Instead of imagining a different future, the winning politics is holding onto what has been. They are losing the brash confidence they can fix the world’s problems,  instead they are retreating back onto their continent, believing that turning a blind eye will make the problems go away. Yes, America got itself into trouble, but it’s confidence was attractive. Now it is becoming a shy, complaining brat.

  Sitting on the pink blanket in Washington Square Park, with my best friend from college, his girlfriend and her friends, I know there is nothing I can do to stop these forces. No matter how often I bring politics up, or how much I read the news or argue with my mum about immigration.

  The comedian Louis CK has a stand up bit that has been uploaded to YouTube. Standing there in a grey suit, slightly overweight and ginger stubble on his face, he tells the audience, the whole world is made up of people that didn’t kill themselves.

  “That’s who’s here, everyone who went, ok, fuck, I’ll keep doing it”.

  He then tells an anecdote about looking over into someone’s car on the motorway. A person sits in it alone, a trash bag for a window flapping in the wind. But they still haven’t killed themselves. “What are they waiting for, another trash bag window?” Louis enquires.

  The truth is, Louis knows what they are waiting for. They are waiting for something interesting to happen. Everyday we are faced with the prospect of keeping going or not. You might have just fallen in love, or been broken up with. Got a new job, or been fired. Had a child, or lost a parent. All these things may lie ahead of you. Or they don’t. 

  Either way, you won’t know unless you keep going.

  Curiosity is what keeps us alive. The urge to know what happens next. To learn about your Fred’s girlfriend’s friend’s reunion and whether she marries the man of her dreams. Or how long the experiment of US democracy can last. Both are undecided and both are life changing for at least one person.

  The conversation continues. We chat about thanksgiving plans, then someone asks me what I do for work. I give them a brief synopsis but make it clear I don’t want to get too involved in work chat. The sun is falling down in the sky, I thank everyone for the coffee and bagel and stand up to head back to my apartment.

  October 14, 2024

  anxiety, fiction, life, Love, politics, short-story, writing

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• Anxiety

  People often try to ease social anxiety by saying, “don’t worry no one notices you anyway”. The idea is you shouldn’t stress about what you are saying, or your appearance because even if you did do something embarrassing no one cares. Everyone is too interested in themselves.

  I open my laptop to read emails. I am anxious and shaky. The alcohol I was still consuming in the early hours of Sunday morning has now fully passed through. I feel empty, stripped of the dopamine needed to motivate me. I open Twitter, and see a notification.

  It is a link to an article about freedom of speech legislation. “Took me 2 mins of Googling to find. Next time, make sure to do your research before calling someone else a liar”.

  I was at a wedding on Saturday. It was a friend from college. We weren’t that close at college but over the last few years I have got to know him and his family better. They are a family that seem so self assured. I know this can’t be as true as I think it is. But from the outside, they are attractive, confident in their intelligence, and generous with their home. And I want them to like me.

  After the ceremony, we sat down to a starter of a salad of green leaves, shredded carrots and tomatoes, dressed in a vinaigrette of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. It was light, with the perfect amount of dressing. Not swimming, just brushed. Confident in its flavor, without being overbearing.

  I ate it and then went to the bar, where I was introduced to a girl that wanted a cigarette. I had a pack of Marlboro Lights tucked inside my jacket pocket. I offered to go outside with her and her friend. It was a clear night and the stars were dotted across the sky. I offered them both cigarettes.

  I like smoking because it gives an opportunity for a quiet conversation. I don’t like the smell it leaves on me, but the trade off is worth it.

  “How do you know the couple,” I asked.

  “Went to middle school with him,” he responded. The girl I offered the cigarette to stood in silence. She took a long drag, her eyes darted between the two of us and then she let the smoke drift out of her slightly opened mouth.

  We were standing twenty meters away from the party, everyone else inside was dancing to a live band playing covers of Abba. You could hear them shouting along in a disorderly way.

  Outside, we were trading a few details about our childhood. “I went to college with him”, “I grew up in England and moved here a few years ago”, “I am a writer”.

  Then he asked me. “What do you make of the freedom of speech law in England”.

  “Which freedom of speech law,” I enquired.

  “The 2010 one, that says you can be put in jail for something you put on Twitter”.

  I stopped for a moment. I didn’t want to talk about politics. I definitely didn’t want to talk about freedom of speech. And certainly not with this guy. I tried to keep my calm.

  “I don’t think that is true, we are protected under the European Court of Civil Rights which protects freedom of speech in the UK,” I responded with more confidence than I should have. 

  He denied this. Told me I didn’t know what I was talking about. I asked him when the last time he went to England was. He said a year ago. I said I am from there. He told me I was an idiot. At least that is how I remember it.

  “So you are telling me parts of England aren’t ruled under sharia law, that the mayor of London isn’t a Muslim?” he took a different line of questioning.

  “No, none of England is ruled under sharia law, and yes the mayor of London is a Muslim,” I responded.

  I explained that I have lived there most of my life. And that our common law system applies equally to everyone in the country. He called me an “elitist piece of shit”. I apologized to the girl for the conversation. He told me not to, she agreed with him and then he turned and walked inside with her.

  I stood alone in the dark, away from the party while Abba still throbbed in the background. The cigarette smoldered in my hand. My fingers stunk. 

  I open the article on Twitter, it’s from a news website I trust. Published two years ago and gives some examples of people in the UK that have been prosecuted for threatening to “kill” and “rape” people on Twitter. Am I wrong? Is this what freedom of speech is? I always thought it was illegal to threaten people with violence?

  Then I realise this man has been thinking of me all weekend. Sat down on Monday morning, found my last name, looked for me on social media and posted the article to my feed in public. “Don’t worry no one notices you anyway,” I think. 

  What else has been noticed? I told  a girl I was trying to flirt with her, and then when she said she had a boyfriend I quickly apologised. That seemed respectful. But maybe it was pathetic. Maybe she saw flakes of dandruff on my jacket, or my breath smelt. My fingers certainly smelt like cigarettes.

  She hasn’t found me on Twitter to tell me how pathetic I am, but maybe she told her friends. And her boyfriend. And the family of the wedding.

  I want to respond. Argue back. “That legislation doesn’t exist anymore”, “It only applies to death threats”, “the US constitution doesn’t allow you to say anything you want”. I want to win. Explain why he is wrong, remove all doubt and get him to see the world the way I do. I sit for a few minutes. Do nothing, wait for the decision to settle.

  Slowly the warmth dissipates from my face and heart rate begins to slow. I read the article again. I am right but he will never agree.

  Sometimes people do notice you. Sometimes it is because they love you. Sometimes it is because they hate you. You might remind them of their dad, their first grade English teacher or themselves. But you will never know and they might not either.

  I don’t respond. I get up, yawn and go outside. It is the last nice week of summer. It is still sunny and warm, but the mugginess of August is gone.

  September 16, 2024

  anxiety, fiction, freedom-of-speech, politics, writing

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