Reflecting on a Past Life

remembering having nothing

Be the Source // Gustave Courbet

I am writing to say hello from underneath a massive backlog of work.

I was sick with covid for a week, and in that week I was reminded that there is little time in our world (or, rather, in the world of a PhD candidate with a high teaching load) for sickness or rest.

Today, a week and a half after I tested positive, I am only beginning to feel like myself again.

Yesterday I had a panic attack. And the day before.

Last night I chopped veggies and made a dip for my large veggie tray, which helps me to eat nourishing food when I’m busy. I set my alarm to play jazz in the morning. I took deep breaths. I tried a new thing to help me fall asleep: naming artists alphabetically. I realized I don’t know the names of enough artists. I fell asleep on E.

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I am supposed to be reading for one of my classes right now, but I don’t want to neglect this newsletter, because neglecting this newsletter is akin to neglecting myself. This newsletter brings me joy. You, my reader, bring me joy. So I’m here to commune with you.

What did you do this morning that made you feel something?

This morning I realized I can ask Alexa to play podcasts, and I asked Alexa to play The Slowdown, a poetry podcast hosted by Major Jackson, whose poetry I adore.

This morning his reflection made me cry. The Slowdown is special because a new poem is offered daily, but also because the host often recounts a memory or reflects on their life, our lives, or the collective life.

Jackson recalled reading at a writer’s conference and signing books afterwards. He left his ipod under the signing table, and the following morning he used “find my device” to track it down. The gps tracker led his to a homeless encampment. He stood there, listening to the faint ping of his iPod, and decided not to retrieve it.

“Near the path, I faintly heard a beeping noise coming from the vicinity. But it seemed wrong; unethical, even; to march in and demand the return of a mere technological device amidst a real struggle for economic dignity. While I and others enjoyed the jovial proceedings of a writer’s conference, not too far away, twenty families lived parallel lives of immense poverty. The poor are invisible to many, until they are not: standing with a sign at a stoplight, or the end of a highway exit, or curled up at night, outside, on beds of newspaper in front of shuttered stores. Against the backdrop of our busy lives, they are a distorted portrait of indolence.” -Major Jackson

As Jackson spoke through my speaker, I sliced onions and prepared my breakfast, and I cried.

When he named the places of visibility, the places we see those living without homes, I recalled standing and sleeping in those places when I was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.

I recalled asking for spare change outside of grocery stores and the various reactions my existence elicited in those who passed by me.

Fear. Anger. Pity. Compassion. Empathy.

It’s easy for me to feel so distant from the time I spent on the street when I was a teenager. No, it’s not easy. It’s necessary for my survival.

One cannot constantly recall being spit on, or being at the mercy of strangers. It’s too painful. Too painful partially because I now exist in a world where there are so few people who have experienced such hunger. Not hunger for physical sustenance but hunger for shelter— emotional shelter. The shelter of a loving family. The shelter of community.

When I remember that time I am also sitting here, at my computer, in my little cottage; a PhD candidate with a forthcoming book. The space between those two worlds is uncrossable for many. For me, there is no space. They are the same world. I have lived in both, and been someone who is both an accomplished writer but also who was more than once spat on and treated like less than an animal by passerby.

In remembering this I remember that we are all capable of so much. Of anything. We are capable of deep, boundless compassion and kindness and we are capable of violence. No one is purely good. No one is purely bad. Nothing is pure. Nothing is one thing.

There is humanity. Messy. Complicated. Fucked-up. Beautiful.

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I am an undercover former drug addict and homeless person. If I told no one of my past, they would never know. I could pretend I’ve always had it together.

But why pretend? Any shame I once had regarding being unhoused or being an addict has worked its way out of my system, because I know what this system does to us. This system, whatever you want to call it (capitalism, white supremacy, colonization) teaches us that we are separate from one another. It teaches us that we make our beds. When we make our beds we must sleep in those beds. It teaches us that anything is possible, if only we can do it ourselves.

I am not formerly homeless because of my own will, or my individual capacities. I am formerly homeless because I am white. Because I had a home to return to, no matter how toxic it was. Because I know how to read and write. Because some teacher way back somewhere told me I was smart. Not because I am special. But because of what was available to me.

I remember this all the time. That we are are not individuals, really, but a collective. We are nothing without each other’s love and support. They try to tell us differently, but they only want our souls. Our humanity. They is not human. They is also us. They is humanity. And we, as individuals, can choose generosity and grace instead of scarcity and individualism.

So, this morning I cried, and remembered that we are all the same, really. I have learned this over and over again. Within all of us is a beating heart wanting to love and be loved.

We deserve to love and be loved.

You do.

I do.

I hope that you can give yourself some love today, and give some love to someone else in whatever form, even if it’s a kind thought.