What Does It Mean?

give me your tired, your poor

I want you to know, as you read me, precisely who I am and where I am and what is on my mind. I want you to understand exactly what you are getting: you are getting a woman who for some time now has felt radically separated from most of the ideas that seem to interest other people. You are getting a woman who somewhere along the line misplaced whatever slight faith she ever had in the social contract, in the meliorative principle, in the whole grand pattern of human endeavor.

- Didion, In the Islands, The White Album, pg. 133-34

I don’t know how to start, so I’ll start with me.

A man read my Substack essays and asked me to dinner. I dressed casually. I took three trains to Soho. I did not want to go, but I decided it might be a good idea to take action. Act as if I were interested. Act as if I were ready. Act as if I didn’t have ducks to get in order before introducing a man into the mix.

When I say he asked me to dinner after reading my essays, what I should include is that this man found me on one of those gay apps. I could call it a dating app, but that sounds like a farce. It’s a sex app. Most of those men don’t request dinner, they barely request coffee, they always request you drop a pin or provide the cross street intersection of where one lives. I digress. The point is, this man asked me to dinner not because he enjoyed my writing, though he said he did and referenced several pieces I wrote, but because he saw me as a vessel he could potentially possess. I don’t mind. We’re at the table for the same reason.

He asks me what I am working on. I tell him I am working on this. Precisely this. What you are reading. A political piece about the state of the nation. A dilapidated country. Land of false promise. Minneapolis is distressed and distorted by violent authority, acting as an omen to other cities like Philadelphia, San Antonio, and Miami. The Epstein Files dangling from a locked box over the world - with importance and heft comparable to the Akashic records and a horror that goes beyond the minds of Stephen King, Ira Levin, and Wes Craven combined. Our relationship with Israel has questionable motives and morals. Signing off on the slaughter of men, women, and children. I spiral down a well of morose thought.

We are building more detention centers in our country for immigrants and “illegal aliens” while we watch Ali Larter get a manicure in Land Man. We are feeding our babies green beans while Donald Trump demeans the authority of NATO when it comes to discussions of Greenland ownership. We are sucking dick at the Cock in the East Village while a baby dies at the hands of Netanyahu. I am drinking coffee and reading headlines, and it feels like I am watching a moving picture that my brain can’t compute. I can’t figure out what I am looking at - let alone what it means.

“How is the piece coming along?”

“Not well.”

“Why?”

“The more I write, the more confused I become.”

“About?”

“I don’t know.”

I lose intellectual points with him. I accept failure.

He asks me why I am writing it. I tell him I want to write a political piece that isn’t polarizing, that invites both parties in. I dream of a country that can look at the same picture, see the same thing, and agree. I dream of a nation united. I dream of a nation that can request a new, improved immigration process with updated requirements that better align with the average American. A process that is easier and less lengthy. I dream of a nation that can agree that what ICE is doing is an improper operation. I dream of a nation where everyone agrees that something needs to be done, but not this way. No violence. Who am I to dream?

I want a nation to read the epigraph on the Statue of Liberty and ask themselves what it means. The Emma Lazarus poem. You know the one. Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

This nation does not want the tired or the poor. They want Kim K BBLs, Sonia Rykiel knitwear, and Gilmore Girls reruns. America does not dream of being of service to those in need. It’s been extinguished from our makeup. We are not a humanitarian nation. Is any nation? I am unsure.

I wanted to write a piece that was unbiased, soft, convincing - but that does not exist within me. I do not exude those qualities in this context; I don’t know if anyone does. Sweetness dilutes in the war zone. For the past five years, I have watched respectable news sources become increasingly left or right wing. Unbiased journalism has become a myth to me. You have to read everything to find the truth in between, and even then, who knows what we are actually finding? This unbiasedness has led to confusion. Conspiracy Theorism is at an all-time high. Candace Owens and the Manosphere deliver conspiracy theories weekly, which only promote further radicalism. A lack of trust in our government creates a further divide amongst the people.

The reason I wanted to write this piece with a softness is that exact divide. I am a moderate-liberal-minded individual. I come from a family that is hyper-conservative. My mother, my step-father, my aunts, my uncles - they are all Republicans, and not 2012 Mitt Romney Republicans. They are 2017-2026, Build That Wall, Kick the Aliens Out, “Grab ‘Em By The Pussy” Trumpers.

The only way I know how to communicate with them is to either have a full-out brawl or to stay silent. These days, I stay silent. I love my family - but they can’t carry a political conversation with me. We just don’t get along. One individual I love deeply, but she doesn’t watch the news. She enjoys having an opinion that lacks exploration. There’s no real crime in that, but it’s led me to realize that she is a lost cause in this context. She doesn’t want to understand; she just wants to have unchallenged beliefs. She wants to lead an unchallenged life. It’s a fair desire, but I don’t know if it works.

The only Republican in my family that I have ever contextually respected was my grandmother. She watched FOX NEWS religiously. Although she was ill-informed, she was informed. She was passionate. I had to admire her attention to detail. I vehemently disagreed with her, but she had my respect. I believe I had hers too. With her gone, there’s no one left to talk to. I’ve been fairly silent since. She was the last one who was willing to face challenges.

I wanted to write this piece in the hope that I could call upon someone to hear me, but she won’t. I can try to be respectful, but to be unbiased - it does not exist in this decade.

My date asked, “How are you going to write a piece that’s not polarizing when the subject matter is polarizing from every angle?” I shrugged, making unmistakable eye contact. My shrug translated: “You’re right, I concede. I can’t.” Didn’t take much to change my mind, or in this case, bring me to God.

ICE killed Renee Good. ICE killed Alex Pretti. Civilians are being killed on our soil. An Immigration War is occurring on stolen land. Families are being split. Those with visas and papers are wrongfully being sent into detainment and/or being deported.

A friend of mine is dating a refugee from Ecuador. “Segundo” is afraid to leave his apartment. When a vacation outside of New York City is suggested to him, he stumbles over his words. He is afraid to leave the sanctuary of the city. He asks questions rooted in reasonable fear. “What if they send me back?” No answer can soothe him, because there is no answer to soothe him.

A friend of mine is an Art Teacher in Philadelphia. She watched a student of hers be walked out by ICE agents. No one saw this student again. When I asked her what she did next, she said she did nothing. She could do nothing. She continued her lesson on Degas thirty minutes later in an attempt to fight the discomfort and growing hysteria in her classroom. Needless to say, the entire semester was ruined for all involved.

A Bushwick Club Girl messaged me one night, asking me if I was out. I am never out. I am never in Bushwick. I don’t know why she would ever think to text me.

“There are ICE Agents outside the House of Yes and I have a friend with me who is not exactly like, yeah.” I know what she means. “He is scared to go home.”

I could only provide a one word answer, the word being an expletive of frustration. She and a group of girls circled him, leaving the afters. He made it home in the swarm. Three blocks of fear. I fear for him, knowing that the swarm of protection won’t be there forever.

Many people in the conservative party, not all, refused to acknowledge that fear. They are stuck on the sentiment of “Become a citizen the right way, and you won’t have to worry about it.” I understand this sentiment to a certain degree. I am someone who is always complaining with a lack of compassion. When you do something wrong, there are consequences. Don’t cry. Don’t complain. You didn’t want a computer virus, so pay for McAfee. Your credit score is suffering; don’t live beyond your means. This, however, feels different. This is affecting individuals by the thousands. When thousands are suffering, that is a sign that the system is generally malfunctioning, failing. Why make others suffer for a government’s failings?

I have a relative who is active on social media. Her Instagram stories are consistently flooded with content that mocks liberal values and pokes fun at those suffering at the hands of ICE. She finds a way to argue her rage, which is centered around the assassination of Charlie Kirk. Her clear argument is “liberals insulted and mocked the murder of Charlie Kirk, so I will mock the violence against immigrants.” It’s not authentically effective, but she is not seeking to be effective. She just wants to express her own personal rage. I understand this rage.

My liberal relatives fight her in the comments, and she cannot properly argue them off. She repeats her views over and over again like a filibuster. She does not seek to understand or even to be understood; she seeks to ragebait, whether she has this awareness is a different argument altogether.

It’s a shame. She seeks to be material in the division machine. I pray her rage subsides. I pray she sees this isn’t the best path. I pray she asks for a better way.

People deserve to feel safe. According to the U.S. Constitution, everyone on U.S. soil is legally entitled to fair treatment regardless of background or immigration status. If their life, freedom, or property is at risk, then they are entitled to just and fair treatment. ICE is infringing on the right to safety and freedom. It seems like simple math to me. However, I am not on the Supreme Court. I am just a man.

Multiple headlines read that Trump intends to expand detention sites within the nation in a $45 billion plan. I think a huge issue is that we don’t know what is happening in these detention sites. How are these immigrants being treated? How many are still alive? When the nation is hiding the truth, it’s never a good sign. We remember what happened in Guantanamo Bay. Authoritative figures acted vindictively toward prisoners. I have no doubt that detainees are being tortured. It’s human nature to be violent.

I would make a call to action, but it seems fruitless. I have stated my dreams above. For people walking free without fear. For ICE to not actively seek out “aliens” and immigrants. An accessible form for becoming a U.S. Citizen. Like I said before, who am I to dream?

Violence creates a further schism in the nation’s makeup. The division will only destroy us. I don’t think I am saying anything, but if I don’t start using my voice, then it will become lost. There’s not much to say when I really think about it. All I have are words that sound like daisy chains. What’s the crime in seeking peace for all, especially those whom Emma Lazarus directed her words toward?

My date asked me whether I was writing this essay out of fear of my own complicity. My answer was an uncertain no. I do not fear my own complicity, with or without the essay; I am probably complicit. No matter what I do, it won’t be enough. I write this to figure out what I am seeing and how I am feeling - I still lack cogent resolve. I write this before my voice and mind drift from the issues. I want proof of what I am seeing. I want to document it before it disappears, before I forget. It doesn’t matter if I understand; it matters if I remember.

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