I am 26 years old.
I thought I knew more — but I don’t.
I thought I knew how to deal with money, with life, with culture.
But all I know is love.
Maybe.
And I will not ask anyone.
And I will not wait for anyone.
And I will not listen to anyone.
And I will not hope for anything.
Because there is none.
Even if someone wanted it — it’s not here.
It’s not here.
There is no culture here.
There is no culture without.
There is no culture without women and femme people.
There is no culture without LGBTQIAP+ people.
There is no culture without people with disabilities.
There is no culture without people with mental health struggles.
There is no culture without neurodivergent people.
There is no culture without people living with addictions.
There is no culture without people with eating disorders.
There is no culture without people experiencing homelessness.
There is no culture without sex workers.
There is no culture without people facing economic exclusion.
There is no culture without people exploited by abusive employers.
There is no culture without survivors of physical, psychological, or sexual violence.
There is no culture without Jewish, Islamic, Protestant, Orthodox, agnostic, or atheist people.
There is no culture without migrants.
There is no culture without refugees.
There is no culture without those whose identities, bodies, sexualities, spiritualities, ethnicities, social statuses, or ways of making a living do not conform to the image of the white-and-red patriarch marching proudly with his patriarchal guardian at his side — the ones who, with holy slogans in their mouths, push us into the hells of prisons, camps, or crematory ovens — or the neoliberal figures who fetishize us and wipe their capitalist mouths with our existences in the name of individual profit and access to power.
There is none.
There is no culture without us and our experiences.
Because we exist. Simply.
Even as we are being pushed further and further onto the margins, every single day — we are still here.
With growing awareness of one another’s existence.
And the glass ceilings are being lowered so much that eventually they will start to crack under the pressure of our heads.
We must simply be. As much as possible. Together. With empathy.
We must talk about our privileges, share our spaces, listen to each other’s stories, herstories, and queerstories with tenderness.
We must inflate these fragile bubbles of temporary safety.
We can still do that much.
It’s all a cliché.
And I no longer have strength for it.
I no longer have strength for the rage that fills every cell of my body, year after year — the rage this world, this country, this city pumps into us.
But even so, I keep speaking.
Without hope, irrationally, in mounting desperation.
I keep speaking.
Even though I am not a fucking messiah.
None of us are.
And yet we keep speaking.
Not one more!
Not one more person with a uterus sentenced to death by a criminal system!
Not one more queer person sentenced to death by hatred!
Not one more refugee sentenced to death by political manipulation!
Not one more person!
Not one more!
