6/4/21

By Josh Rubin

Activism is a humbling experience. Not only does it remind us of how little we can accomplish in this world, but it throws into doubt the assumptions we make about human nature and the social forces that drive the tides in the affairs of humans.

Many of us—and I am thinking of myself here—construct their political strategy from a notion that in all of us can be found a common substrate of ideas about right and wrong, love and hate, righteousness and shame. But I am beginning to have doubts that these are easily found, and if found, may not provide the best basis for leverage, for persuasion. We are in a world where insecurity of various origins and characters is never far from awareness. And that sense of precariousness takes its place at the top of a long list of concerns, well dug in, and forgivably so.

And while I am in this confessional mood, I might as well admit that people like myself may apply the social concerns of our time as a poultice on the wounds sustained by our own humanity. Let’s face it, being human is is not easy, and contentment does not appear to be a very common or natural state for us humans, even those as fortunate as I and my social classmates. Are problems at one remove a degree or so more comfortable to bear?

So, at the end of another round of efforts to point out injustice, with another round of plaintive cries coming back asking for a course of action to cure us, and with me throwing up my hands in helplessness, I not only wonder about the efficacy of this kind of activism, but I am even suspicious of my assumptions and motives.

Forgive me, but I wonder, for instance, if tonight the best way to end the horror show of Title 42 and Fort Bliss is to close my eyes and stuff my ears. Has anyone tried it?

I am weary.