America: A Communal Defrosting of Our Collective Numbness

I sit in relaxed stillness, watching the Washington Nationals game on a perfect summer day in 2018 with a slight breeze running down my chest through my white linen blouse. I embrace my Stella-induced buzz and hide myself to make the older man I am sleeping with the center of attention. I am following the good white girl playbook as I listen to shit I don’t care about with intention and fawn for approval through the batting of my eyelashes.

”That’s a strike all day! Did you see that?”, my fuck buddy is fully immersed in the game as he shouts at his guy friend I am meeting for the first time.

I take another swig of my Stella and smile in agreement, but no words leave my mouth.

I gloss over as I believe this is as good as it gets. I have achieved what every girl with low self-esteem and avoidant communication dreams of: a situationship with low stakes.

Meanwhile, I’m distracted with current US events.

One thousand eight hundred miles away in McAllen, Texas, families are being ripped apart for the sake of being efficient and protecting a definition of “America” that is white centered and morally superior.

I am not directly affected by this atrocity, which creates a sense of dissonance. The lack of direct contact somehow makes the effect of 2000 children being torn away from their parents less of a pill to swallow.

This is my white privilege in the flesh.

Mario Aguilar shows photos of his four sons as he waits for work outside the Casa del Migrante shelter for migrants in Tijuana, Mexico. Aguilar, a Mexican citizen, had been living in the United States for 28 years before he was deported. Photo taken by David Maung in 2007 and featured in Human Rights Watch

The part of me that is numb craves to be gutted to a pulp. To be personally affected, or at the very least, to have the current information at my fingertips, burn into my heart like a cattle prod and induce fire, rage, and a revolution.

Instead, I’m here at the game, drinking my Stella Artois chilled to perfection and telling myself that I will not have sex with Tony tonight, but in fact, I will. I will stay disconnected from body and the rest of the world that could benefit from my being fully fucking alive.

Today, on June 16th, 2025, my heart is pumping with feral aliveness.

After six and a half years of no situationships, 361 days sober from alcohol, and multiple 12-step recovery programs, I am emotionally sober on most days.

Thank God, because my community needs me to be. I need to be.

Days before, texts are coming in like ticker tape across the Hollywood Heights neighborhood Whatsapp thread as we organize to protest at #NOKINGS for our communities across LA, our country, and our brothers and sisters abroad who are being erased by war.

“I’m going to Costco to grab some supplies for tomorrow. Let me know if you want me to grab anything for you,” types a neighbor.

“I’m happy to host a gathering point at my place before we all head to the subway”, I respond.

I imagine conversations and community bridges being built all over Los Angeles as we prepare to show the rest of the country how you do not fuck around with our city.

Two thousand organized protests took place across our country, gathering over five million people.

Y’all, it felt like a communal defrosting of our country’s numbness over the weekend.

In Los Feliz, protesters line the streets like a militia of ants, holding signs, flags, and a blaring message to the administration: “Hey Hey Ho Ho, Donald Trump has got to GO!”

Vans and motorcycles with sidecars pull over to distribute bottled water to the overheated crowds, which shift from one corner to the other as designated organizers keep the peace and clear the streets.

A Latino mailman in his mail delivery truck stops at a red light and blares his horn at the crowd while mouthing “Thank You” and giving each side of the street a thumbs up.

Metro bus drivers honk and wave with passion and celebration as they pick up and drop off local passengers.

I look for police officers and the National Guard, and there is no official uniform in sight.

My white female privilege is still intact, but now I can engage it in a dangerous way that dismantles the very system that put it on a pedestal in the first place.

To the younger version of me who couldn’t find her heart and compassion:

You did the absolute best you could with the script you were given. You might have been numb to the 2000 families that were being ripped apart seven years ago, but you can choose again and be awake today. Go be feral, fearless, and alive. Allow that big, bleeding, beautiful heart of yours to lead you into some good trouble. Maybe even get arrested. Who knows. Keep it interesting.

Love,

Unconditional Love

Note to reader: This piece was inspired by my very first blog post, which I shared publicly on MEDIUM June 21, 2018, almost seven years ago.