When I posted the Kierkegaard quote to the right, I was thinking of my personal writing, which was based on looking back and how it had helped me to live forward in a happier way. But that was my life--which I have a modicum of control over. Then there's the world; no matter how much I talk with others, there is only momentary relief. I would like to have a fireside chat with Mr. Kierkegaard. For, looking back at yesterday (I'm talking Election, here) --makes today murkier; understanding shifts and gets lost with each new perspective.
Today is a holiday. Time out from all that disrupts me. And yet, my mind spins. My classes are suffering; we focus on our work. Research papers, which many scramble to update with election results, are hard to pin down. Their papers on such topics as transgender, immigration, gender roles, racism, will all be greatly affected by sweeping policy changes. And so will some of them, personally. We guess at what will occur, but how can we when each day rises and falls, tidal waves that never settle. Credible journalists wrap their pens around each new nuance; but what they wrote yesterday, flails today, will do somersaults next week.
In two of my classes we're prepping for a final exam based on New York. One of our readings, EB White's "Here is New York" is an ode to the possibilities in this city, he clearly loved and loved writing about. There are three New Yorks he says: the one belonging to the natives, people like me who have always been here--we take its offerings for granted. New York two is the commuter's New York--here for the day to work and get what can be gotten, and then leave it behind for neater quarters. And then New York three--White's clear favorite--the passionate, adventurous emigres who bring desire and poetry and longing and grit.
As we discussed this in class yesterday, I couldn't help but think will we revert to two New Yorks? Emigres from only our US boundaries? Or, are there more than three? Four five six New Yorks? White's essay was written in 1949, two years after my parents arrived from Eastern Europe. Survivors of religious persecution, my mother eight months pregnant with my brother--their New York was bittersweet. It represented new life, new chances, tons of grit. But so much had been lost. Passion, adventure, poetry--years away.
Today, New York is a stranger in a strange land. Journalists look back and try to make sense of why we are on a ship with a mercurial captain, Yet we live forward at the same time. Will we get a pass to disembark? Nothing stays the same. I give up on making sense.