On One of Many

The speakers are present to tell us their reactions: L, G, B, T, Q, PP, POC, WOC, ETC.  This is 170 people saying online that they are "Going" and 160 additional people saying they are "Interested" in going to a space with a maximum capacity of 50. This is a private space opened to a majority of minorities tonight. This is poetry turned into a microphoned pep rally of information hand outs, card exchanges, document spreadsheets, and resource sharing. Someone is offering a carpool around Queens and Brooklyn.

I do not know what to expect before I arrive. I am mostly concerned about all the bodies in a space not meant for spillout. I am curious how everyone will fit together to make a difference without attracting the attention of authorities who forbid explicit attempts at differing. I am curious how the event offers grilled cheese all night for an attendee count of potentially 300. I am curious what I want from this. I don't eat bread or drink beer, I am a white single woman sitting at the diner counter, which letters identify me? I don't know what I am expecting.

How does one make a difference without attracting attention to the change? How does one make a difference without attracting the attention of one's self? Can change be made selflessly in the interest of others without consciously acting directly? Or is that selfish to not direct the actions deliberately taken for others?

I cannot decide if it is in my best interest to consider the politics that directly affect me alone, be a help or hindrance, or if it is in my best interest to consider the values weighed by my community at large in our smallness. Who is my community in four years from now? In which communities do I exist as a factor at the present?

The politics of what matter to me begin with as far as I can see with my eyes closed and echo what I can hear with no sound. If I am agreeing with those around me by listening I am handing over my autonomy by parroting relations. I am left to choose what's right in a feedback loop of groupthink. The politics of social niceties do not ask me to register my side on file.

I am not part of my family nor am I part of my friends nor am I partial nor partisan nor anybody's party.

I am a single white woman sitting at the diner counter listening to fear and despair and hope through the microphone.

I wonder what I have to say when everybody laments to me about their loss; I am an ear to give them a voice and a shoulder to give them support and I am not a mouth to echo other than to mirror back a wistful smile so that they know that I am listening.