The Witching Hour

I sat down today to write something substantive about the failures of our politics. Perhaps a meditation on Bayard Rustin’s classic 1965 essay, “From Protest to Politics: The Future of the Civil Rights Movement,” and its shortcomings. But I can’t seem to get my thoughts together. Ideas collide. The page yearns for something more intimate, closer to the heart. An admission. I am not doing so well.

It is not enough that Trump and Republicans were willing to let people starve in this country. We now have to slop around in the Epstein files and deal with the conjectures about Trump’s involvement. Meanwhile, my son complains about the price of groceries at the Safeway near his home in Oakland. Algorithms keep a steady diet of hate and violence in my social media feed. And too many people who seem to care about it all also seem to care more about appearing to others that they care about it all.

That sentence reads like what’s happening in my head.

I am tired. I keep waking up at the witching hour. Glancing at the clock. Exhaling. Forcing my eyes shut. Only to have my mind race and worry. When sleep returns, it is time to get up and begin again. No time for my “elegant despair.”

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I recently attended the Texas Tribune festival. It was wonderful seeing so many people excited about ideas and books—everyday people alongside folks in media, politicians, and policy wonks. I participated on a panel about our democracy, and I couldn’t help but notice the guards strategically positioned around the sanctuary and the stage. We were in Austin, but it is still Texas. They were there to protect us, I guess.

I kept glancing at the men near the stage: the tattoos on their necks and the back of their hands, the long beards and the ponytails. When I spoke, one guard turned his head, smirked, pulled out his phone and sent a quick text. He smirked again. I kept looking at them looking at the audience looking at me.

Earlier that day as I ate lunch, a colleague joined me. It was great to see him. We talked about our work. I just finished my latest book, and I am experiencing a kind of post-book depression. So, I was happy to talk about it. We traded ideas. He wrote notes randomly across the page of a spiral tablet filled with papers jutting out. His eyes kept darting back and forth. His sentences were faster than usual. He rocked slightly side to side as he talked. I asked him how he was doing, and the answer felt familiar. He admitted that he was trying to hold on. Life keeps happening, and the country is going to hell. Bills, children, spouses, lectures, books to be written, archives to visit—and the country is going to hell. One feels the weight of responsibility as one accepts the hard reality of our days.

I keep telling myself that it is perfectly reasonable to say that I am not okay. That there are days when the world appears at an oblique angle, and you lose your footing. It is important to admit that, right? Important to admit that you do not have all the answers to our current troubles – that you cannot understand how so many people can be okay with people going hungry or with filthy rich and powerful men sexually abusing young girls. That you are afraid of monsters.

I am not naïve about the world, just sickened by it all. I am tired. And I know the witching hour awaits. My eyes will open. The clock will glare. My mind will race with worry. Sleep will return, but it will be time to get up and begin again.

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