pregnant with
questions 

A city in the relative north of what is known as the United States of America. A perfectly imperfect mix of charming Italianate architecture and new builds that mirror the accepted discomfort of a place that’s often difficult to define through binary categorizations: Midwestern/Southern, urban/suburban, red/blue, Black/white. State lines only seem to register here when they’re of cultural benefit, or with regard to taxes, or jokes. How these states are separated, however, also happens to represent a stark historical twoness: Mason-Dixon.

The city, like every other, is in the midst of a quiet, confounding health crisis. This pandemic has brought a new moment into the world. That can be said at all times, of course, but this time is very new. Perhaps less a moment than an age. One that feels pregnant with questions for which there are no answers. One that is filled with absence. One that, briefly, feigns a sensation of global collectivism, whereby state energies and resources are pooled together for a clear good. Within this trauma, I dare to believe in a reconsideration of priorities, of society. For a moment, within this new moment…

And then we watch George Floyd for eight minutes and forty-six seconds. And then we learn about eight targeted gunshots into Breonna Taylor’s bed. And Ahmaud Arbery. And. And. And…

And, suddenly, I am reminded of what I don’t know, and shaken awake to an embarrassment of cultural blind spots that have offered me the privilege of expansive reimagining. What is it that I haven’t been seeing? Where do I listen harder now?[1]

Now, I see streets pulsing. Thousands gathered, masks on, in exhilarating public demonstration. Fists are in the air, stances held firm with arms akimbo. I hear a symphony of urgent calls for action, organized chants, a helicopter circling with the sound of a souped-up lawn-mower, and police sirens aimed as threatening klaxons toward the “civil-disobedient.” As this city is in protest, so is the world: New York, Seattle, London, Lisbon, Tokyo, even Bethel, Ohio.

At 11pm one humid night, with eyes on the city as the helicopter surveys and the police vans round up anyone not adhering to the new curfew mandate, I question my place in this situation. I work in the arts and, depending on with whom you’re speaking, the arts have not inherently been as focused on resolving inequality as they have been on providing experiences of commentary on the issue. These middle-ground positions are useless today, dangerous, even, with the knowledge of marginalization and cultural appropriation demanding that the past be reconciled with real steps.

And so, I ask myself: How do we distinguish responsible allyship from structural savior complexes and cultural opportunism? And how long do we allow for radical change to take within institutions, and what are the measurements? And what does an ideal organization look like, top to bottom, and how do we conjure that?

And. And. And…

I am pregnant with questions. Surely there are answers.

[1] Thank you, Amy.