It’s the same thing over and over: sad, disappointing, horrible, frustrating, depressing, and helpless. And I don’t know what to do about it. I can’t talk about, let alone write about it, after the fifteenth time. It all feels like overkill. My feelings and thoughts feel like overkill. I don’t know how people deal with it on a daily basis—make a life out of all of the misery—when I feel like I can’t even do it for a summer.
We talk so much about what divides us from the rest of this movement. Everyone always talks about a racial divide. And in some places that’s probably true. But the biggest divide for us doesn’t appear to be race. Nor does it seem to be sex, as might seem to be another logical suggestion based on the past. No, here we all feel different because of economic status—of class. And the guilt I feel comes from that. And the presumptions that precede us when we enter a room come from that. And there’s nothing we can do about it. Sure—we could give away everything we have and ‘join the people.’ But what would that help? And that feels the same as everything else: sad, disappointing, horrible, frustrating, depressing, and helpless.