I’ve been turning over and over in my mind something the brilliant George M. Johnson said on their TikTok: “Death has become an option.” George talks about hopelessness, fearmongering, and what it means when folks’ rock bottom is already here, through no actions they themselves have taken. “No fault of their own,” as we’ve been conditioned to say, as if living in fascism and corporate greed could be placed on the shoulders of citizens.
There is a palpable exhaustion everywhere you look, when you really look. The cries of babies on public transit sound more urgent, the heavy sighs of elders creep ever closer to a death rattle, and even our animal companions show an incalculable weariness as the earth itself keeps rejecting the creations of humankind. Every bone creak, runny nose, and hacking cough comes from a body that is most likely worn down by these human-created crises of climate and commerce: emergency covid restrictions gone, folks working two and three jobs to stay housed, harsh weather breaking down an already aged infrastructure. Everything around us has, for decades now, pointed to the necessity of change. For those who make their money grinding our bodies to dust, there’s no incentive to do better. They expect more workers so they can make more money, and build their lives away from the chaos and destruction they create for us. Of course, we are all tired. Even those who don’t see the pattern. And especially those who do.
There’s a beaten down feeling when you been seeing and been knowing and been telling folks. After a while, you might give up. You get tired of saying “hopefully,” or “Inshallah,” to cushion the inevitable blow of disappointment and betrayal. Becoming cynical and embittered is the natural response to the slow poisoning, the forever bait-and-switch. We are Charlie Brown, tryna kick that goddamn football. Begging ourselves not to regret relenting to Lucy’s cajoling, we land flat on our backs, looking up and wondering why we keep doing it. Why our hope is a toy for another person, and what that does to our human need for connection, belonging, and safety.
I envision this need as a shoreline. Not the constructed, engineered kind, but the most raw and natural. It has jagged edges, inlets, and caves; seaweed and algae abound as they travel along the water. With each lapping wave, there’s a slow erosion of sand and rock. Upon a tumultuous storm, there are mudslides and massive shifts in the landscape. That is how I see the betrayals, how I feel them in my body, and how I imagine the slow destruction of hope in myself and others. The storms have been non-stop, an onslaught from every possible direction. Of course we’re all tired. Of course more and more of us are despairing. And, of course, more people are ready to leave this plane. It’s the only guarantee that they won’t suffer anymore.
When your hope is eroded time and time again, the certainty of something good is a fantasy.
Hope needs a foundation in order to exist. Hope must be nurtured with deeds and intention, the same as a fire. You cannot light the way home with no wood. There is no greater blow to the very core of a person than the grief of dead or dying hope. How do we keep going when the light flickers, nearly gone?
I won’t pretend to have an answer for you; I don’t even have one for myself. I do think, though, that we have to meet one another when and where we can. Maybe the trenches are where we stay for a little while, because we need to catch our breath. Perhaps aiming to climb out is more than two or three people can do themselves, and they must gather others to make that happen. Or, vertical moves may not be the only ones. After all, nothing we experience is truly linear, especially time. The traveling of light and sound, visual processing, our view of the sun and moon … all different times, different measures converging to make “right now.” Or two seconds ago, thirty minutes from now, and so on. If time is not linear, perhaps hope isn’t either. And that may be one solution: building hope with and for one another to build a world we actually want to be in. Maybe.
For those who don’t have it, we must honor them where they are. Do not make their despair into your crusade, for your ego is what asks to be saved. Your fear that you’ll have to reckon with mortality shouldn’t motivate you to “save” another person. Instead, let your anxieties push you to know yourself more deeply and lovingly. It might sound wild to say this, but there’s less to fear in the world when you take yourself deep down into your despair and brokenness.
Maybe the death of your hope is the birth of another you.