My good old dog is at my feet in a gray dog bed; he’s injured his back chasing a squirrel. We both forget that he’s fourteen. I give him cannabis dog treats to help the pain, and carry him down the back steps so he can go to the bathroom. Now he’s looking at me with his big, button eyes, glazed over. I barely know how to help.

My students recently did a presentation on Childish Gambino’s “This is America” this week. One of my brightest stopped, mid-sentence, looking at the still of Donald Glover holding an assault weapon.

“I’d be remiss if I didn’t also mention that we just had another mass shooting,” she said quietly. She is talking about Pittsburg, which, at the time of this class, had only happened a few days prior. We were still recovering from Kavanaugh (they’d been learning about moral reasoning, and we’d used the Supreme Court Justice position as an opportunity to explore ethics).

I opened a bright pink box of donuts. “Please eat,” I said to them, my palms open. They each took a donut gingerly, and I felt my heart riotous in my chest.

Let me backup a minute.

When I took this teaching job, I was shown a tiny black box, hidden in each classroom. “If there’s a shooter,” the Office Manager of my department said to me, somewhat cheerily, “just push this button and say ‘everything is just fine.’ That way, they don’t think you’re reporting them, and shoot you.”

I think about the fact that the dashboard of my car still shows mileage in kilometers because I don’t know how to reset it. How I threaten to throw my perfectly good printer out the window on a weekly basis because I don’t know how to unjam paper. My own inability to follow simple directions is something I’m largely OK with, except in my profession, where I’m expected to know how to fend off an armed person determined to kill me.

In a few weeks, I’m traveling to Tucson to teach a Gender Empowerment and Allyship workshop for community members, K12 educators, and parents. I’ve rightfully gotten a lot of pushback about this because even though I’m grayscale genderqueer and a femme who does trauma awareness and transcompetency in education, I’m still pretty comfortable with pronouns that define me as cis.

I get it. The pushback, I mean. And…

I believe that we’re living in a time where we’re redefining what cohesion and solidarity look like. A time when allyship and the work of allies needs to step up and utilize the privileges and resources that we have in order to center and hold up the most vulnerable and marginalized in our communities.

My own inability to follow simple directions is something I’m largely OK with, except in my profession, where I’m expected to know how to fend off an armed person determined to kill me.
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I know that we (my community, educators, activists) have had many discussions about how to center trans and genderqueer narratives without placing the burden of education on said folks, and I feel grateful that this workshop is an opportunity to begin that work. I recognize that this is an evolving process, one that must remain living and porous in order to consistently identify and meet the needs of those who have been pushed even further into the margins by the very real dangers of our political landscape.

I feel honored and excited to be invited to participate in this larger conversation and skillshare. Excited and honored to be just one small piece of this event, which is made up, aside from myself, of locals. I feel excited to be using the education and privilege that I have to help dismantle the problematic systems that keep our most vulnerable community members disempowered. Excited to see how allyship and solidarity can manifest when we have these intergenerational, interdisciplinary, inter-pedagogical conversations.

I’m having these conversations the day the news about the shooting comes through. I’m on the phone with a trans high school principal in Arizona, talking about listening to the most vulnerable members of our community, when Kavanaugh is sworn into the Supreme Court.

See? Every time we start to make a path to healing, another massive disruption happens in our country that derails us. It’s hard to know how to build houses in ceaseless earthquakes.

I like to say, and say it often, that teaching and writing and reading and staying engaged are the answer, and I believe that — I do. And yet it’s difficult to figure out what to teach, what to write, what to read, what to engage with. Sometimes, I feel like I’m merely teaching my students skills for harm reduction: how to not be manipulated by the media. How to be kind to other people. How to take no shit, but do no harm. To be thoughtful.

Then I remember bell hooks and about how syllabi and pedagogy are inherently colonialist, so I also think a good deal about how to make the classroom less of a white, feminized space. And also how to throw my body into the fire if I need to.

It’s hard to know how to build houses in ceaseless earthquakes.
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Is that allyship? Is that taking autonomy? Am I in the right to do this? Knowing about being or not being in the “right” requires understanding one’s own position, which means understanding one’s self. Which, for me, as a person with CPTSD and chronic pain and a smorgasboard of intersecting marginalized identities, means carving time out for therapies.

Is allyship privileged?

“Yes and no” is the answer and has been the answer to all of life’s most complicated questions. Every day I teach my students that many truths can exist alongside one another, that there isn’t really a “right” answer to anything—only an evolving attempt at an answer. Allyship itself, as a concept, isn’t privileged; allyship comes from a place of deep love, compassion, and empathy, which are all traits even people being actively attacked can feel and foster.

But the way self care, as an industry, has been created as a “mindfulness culture” (inside capitalism, inside the United States, specifically)—that is particularly privileged. To have access to therapy, to the education necessary to not only be hired to stand in front of rooms of people for pay, but to also even know that allyship is urgently necessary. After all, it’s a term we use largely in circles that are, if not entirely academic, often radical, activist, or informed by collective consciousness—and in order to have access to that information, that terminology, you still need to have certain resources.

Is allyship privileged? ‘Yes and no’ is the answer and has been the answer to all of life’s most complicated questions.
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This has been my year of teaching out of a suitcase. Of traveling across the country and showing up in classrooms and bookstores and living rooms, poetry centers and bars and cafeterias. Of re-thinking the framework of how education *really* works, and where it gets to live. Of putting down the pedagogical framework for de-constructing the very slight differences between “novice” and “expert”.

Not only because of what is happening in the world, the political landscape. But because it’s become alarmingly clear that our institutions—which produce the results they are intended to—are failing the majority of our most vulnerable friends and community members. They’re failing us, too.

Keep evolving your attempt at an answer.

I almost hesitate to contribute to the flurry of commentary around the now infamous New York Times op-ed.

The Kavanaugh hearings demand the disinfecting sunlight of an O-type star—burning very hot and very bright—after all. But the subtext of the op-ed points to two of the most alarming things about Trumpism. First, the fact that most of its opponents—especially on the right—condemn Trump’s style rather than his substance; second, that as a result of this, the groundwork is already being laid for Trumpism sans Trump.

The op-ed is a not-so-subtle plea to do the very thing we must never do: blame Trump’s proto-fascism entirely on the personal failings and quirks of one man:

“We want the administration to succeed and think that many of its policies have already made America safer and more prosperous. But we believe our first duty is to this country, and the president continues to act in a manner that is detrimental to the health of our republic.”

The editorial is, in truth, the confession of an enabler and—despite its nearly unprecedented nature as a devastatingly public betrayal from within—a very traditionally Washington attempt by the author to position themselves for future jobs.

As scathing as the press has been about Trump and his omnishambolic government, there remain two glowing bright spots where even they must buckle and fawn in praise: American military strikes (let us recall Brian Williams’ woeful misunderstanding of Leonard Cohen’s music when the anchor said he was “guided by the beauty of our weapons”), and the mythic “adults in the room” of the Trump White House. These are the “men of honour,” mostly ex-military, who are supposedly sacrificing themselves to be close to Trump, and thus are able to restrain him.

The op-ed author made sure they eagerly claimed the “adult” title, and with good reason: Their audience was not ordinary Americans, but the country’s intelligentsia—political operatives, the non-profit world, academics, and journalists. It was a lullaby meant to reassure them that the “adults in the room” were real, implicitly noble conservatives who put “country first.” In that vein of media-friendly mythologizing, the coup de grace was shamelessly grabbing onto the coattails of the late John McCain’s newly sewn, saint-like hagiography.

The editorial is the confession of an enabler and a very traditionally Washington attempt by the author to position themselves for future jobs.
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Why? Remember that this administration has been uniquely radioactive for its employees and officials. Normally a White House stint is a golden ticket to plum jobs worldwide. That’s not proven true for Trump’s feckless adjutants, however. There’s a skin-deep stain of association with things like Trump’s Charlottesville remarks, where he praised neo-Nazis, insisting there were “good people on both sides” of a one-sided assault—acts which culminated in a terror attack that cost a young socialist counterprotester her life and injured many others.

“Out, damned spot!” cry Trump’s staffers and murderous ministers. They scrub feverishly in hopes of removing the mark that might keep them from a lifetime of corporate boards and preselection for safe seats. Painting themselves as the “adults in the room” media darlings—snatching the halo unworthily bestowed on Chief of Staff John Kelly or Defense Secretary Jim Mattis—is the only way they might cleanse themselves.

We shouldn’t allow this to work. The true thesis of the op-ed is “Trump is horrible, we know, but we’re good people, really.” The signal is sent up, particularly to other conservatives and the baleful number of credulous liberals who still desperately need to believe in the “compassionate conservative”:

“Don’t get me wrong. There are bright spots that the near-ceaseless negative coverage of the administration fails to capture: effective deregulation, historic tax reform, a more robust military and more.”

Take them at their word. Don’t get them wrong. They’re right wing and fine with the continual looting of our country and its imperialist ambitions. They just don’t want to be as uncouth and “anti-trade” as Trump. But for malingering as they have, like a long lasting cold, they deserve no mercy or sympathy.

As this is the umpteen-thousandth take on the op-ed I’ll only delve into one more issue, which I feel hasn’t received its due attention. The op-ed is deliberately designed to instill complacency. The last section, which invokes the ghost of Senator McCain in an unintentionally apposite way, is a call to lay down arms.

“The bigger concern is not what Mr. Trump has done to the presidency but rather what we as a nation have allowed him to do to us. We have sunk low with him and allowed our discourse to be stripped of civility. Senator John McCain put it best in his farewell letter. All Americans should heed his words and break free of the tribalism trap, with the high aim of uniting through our shared values and love of this great nation.”

The author blames us all for our fate. We allowed ourselves to sink low with Trump, and even our opposition to him is darkened by his long shadow. Aside from the fact that one should always beware anyone peddling “no labels” as a solution to social problems—even the Bible begins with a parable about the importance and power of naming things—this is the bit of the op-ed where you see the oil leaking.

The allegations in the op-ed are deadly serious, and yet that merely indicts the author further for their craven complicity. Even now Republicans are lamenting that the op-ed has backfired because it will make it harder to “contain” Trump. Sen. Bob Corker (R-TN) went so far as to validate the piece’s major claims about Trump, yet still laments its publication. They represent a perverse GOP consensus with the author: although Trump can be removed, they’d rather control him. No matter who gets hurt.

There’s something slick about it all; it’s all Trump’s fault, but it’s also the nation’s fault. Who’s not at fault? The author, and their cadre of “resistive” but polite proto-fascists.

This sly nonsense should be met with resistance worthy of that name; it is how we’ll deal with the immediate crisis of Trump and the aftermath of rebuilding a shattered society. Resistance must not be limited to opposing one man; it must address itself to the conditions that made him possible—such as the venality of operatives like this anonymous official. We must dispense with the comforting myth that these “adults in the room” are anything but efficient enablers.

In a word: fight. Treacly unity smothered by the flag is precisely the sort of sleepwalking that led us into Trump’s fever dream. To get out of it, we’ll have to dare to call things what they are, disobey—and horror of horrors—break decorum.

The author wants to tamp down on this as it might upend their plush boardroom chair. No more or less.

The author soft-pedals the “adults in the room” line as “cold comfort.” It’s no comfort at all to know that an administrative coup—with repercussions that will far outlast this presidency—is taking place and lies in the hands of such cowardly people that they’d sacrifice us all to Trump’s furies for a tax cut.

There is but one ice-bath of cold comfort in this mess: the knowledge that Trump himself is absolutely tormented by the question of who wrote the op-ed, and that its author is equally tormented by their tell-tale-heart beating beneath the White House floorboards.

When the two finally meet, each will see the other and find himself; they’ll know, silently, that they deserve each other.

There’s a troublingly pervasive idea that the U.S. is the center of the universe, though it isn’t always expressed as explicitly — or even euphemistically — as that. Instead it’s simply assumed, proffered as truth without a single backward glance or knowing nod to its own megalomania.

As someone who has never been to the U.S. — I was born in Australia and have been living in Latin America for 10 years — I come across U.S.-centrism frequently: in various online spaces, in the attitudes of people I talk to, and of course as a citizen on earth. The U.S.’s attitude in the world comes across as bossy at best, disturbingly violent at worst.

One needn’t look further than the American media landscape to bear witness to our ubiquitous self-obsession and perpetuation. Nearly 3 billion peoplearound the world consume Hollywood movies, and the U.S. hosts 43% of the top 1 million websites; these are the spaces where power is wielded, values are manufactured, and the “leaders” we listen to are created.

U.S.-centric discourse, content, and attitudes make the U.S. the default or standard, and everyone else the Other — secondary, inferior. It’s a casually ubiquitous, jingoistic notion that places the U.S. above all else. And that makes it dangerous. (See: anything and everything Trump.) Especially as the cultures, struggles, history, food, leaders, tragedies, and ideas from other countries are — by definition — just as legitimate and salient to the human experience.

What follows is an incomplete list of all the different ways we see U.S.-centrism manifesting itself in international contexts.

Job adverts that are listed as remote and open to anyone “anywhere,” but it turns out that that means anywhere in the U.S.

Articles and coverage about things that happen in the U.S. as though they happen everywhere — such as Thanksgiving, Halloween, and Christmas.

Talking about seasons as though the U.S. climate applies to the whole world — “We’ll catch up in spring.”

Talking about U.S. politics as though no other country is currently having to deal with a dangerous, greedy, bigoted egomaniac as (current or future) head of state.

Calling NBA, MLB, and NFL winners “champions of the world” even though the competitions are national U.S. ones.

Referring to the U.S. as “America,” as many of those living on the continent of the Americas are American. While the word has dodgy origins‚ and its boundaries are muddy at best, it has come to represent a regional identity. This isn’t just word play; it comes in the context of the U.S. treating the Americas like its backyard, including the support of conflicts that have led to the deaths of millions of people.

Using the dollar sign to solely represent the USD, when many countries use dollars with different values (Australian dollar, New Zealand dollar, East Caribbean dollar) or use the $ sign to represent their own currency.

Using Fahrenheit for temperature, pounds for weight, and so on, and expecting others to understand, even though the U.S. is the only country—along with Myanmar and Liberia—not using the metric system.

Expecting others to be familiar with U.S. slang, grammar, and accents, while having small tantrums about not understanding other countries’ slang, grammar, or accents. (“Americans” take this as far as being tourists in other countries and asking people everywhere if they “speak English.”)

Treating customs such as Christmas trees and snowy vistas as standard celebratory fare for holidays, even though much of the world isn’t Christian, and many people who are don’t use the trees (in Venezuela, for example, people set up nativity scenes to mark Christmas) or don’t live in climates that are cold in December.

Media coverage based on the idea that the U.S.’s pro-business, two-party system is the only way to do democracy and everyone else is a dictatorship.

Media playing the footage of the 9/11 bombings over and over but never giving the same screen time to the U.S. bombings of Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Yemen, and more . . . or of other tragedies around the world.

The U.S. has 800 bases in 70 countries around the world, but would never permit any country to have a base on its own soil. As Ecuadorian president Rafael Correa put it when discussing the renewal of a U.S. air base on Ecuadorian territory, “We’ll renew the base on one condition: that they let us put a base in Miami — an Ecuadorian base.”

While Trump’s desire to forge literal and metaphorical walls throughout the U.S.— i.e. the odious Mexican border wall and his “Muslim ban” — is alternatively terrifying and disheartening, internationalism and solidarity are important antidotes the American people should employ to counter such racist fear-mongering and policy.

Americans owe it to the rest of the world — especially to those countries being abused by the U.S. government and U.S. corporations — to read, write, and rage against injustices abroad, just as those of us outside the U.S. read about growing injustices in the states.

Americans, especially the many many oppressed groups, are suffering under Trump. Here’s a gentle reminder to the U.S. media that can’t stop talking about him, and to others in the country, to also look beyond U.S. borders: Honduras also has a nightmare government, largely thanks to the U.S.-supported coup in 2009, Palestinians are living under apartheid — something else U.S. leaders have backed — Yemenis and Syrians are being bombed by the U.S. military . . . and the list goes on.

Americans are currently obsessed with the notion that the sky is falling because Trump became president, which, while understandable, has even further hindered their ability to care (or write) about the plight of other countries. (Trump’s disturbing antics dominate the headlines of almost every pub every day.) Indeed, part of what so many people hate about Trump is his crushing narcissism and jingoism, but by fixating on the people within your own country, you are, in many ways, behaving in a very similar matter.

Trump wants to put “America first,” but I know that most people in the U.S.—while reeling from socio-political fallout—understand that, in fact, the U.S. isn’t the center of the universe. And I believe they have it in them to put humanity first, instead.

The night Barack Obama won the 2008 presidential election, my brother called me. He was sobbing. I hadn’t heard him cry like that since he was a child. There was no greeting, no yells of elation, just the same sentence through his sobs.

“Nobody ever told me I could have been president.”

He repeated that a few times, told me he loved me, then hung up the phone.

Nobody ever told him that he could be president, and nobody told me, either. I don’t think I ever heard a black classmate say that they wanted to be president when they grew up. Our parents loved us and believed in us, but they were realistic about the world. A world that was (and still is) out to get their babies.

For decades, many of us have believed the promise made by White Supremacy, that if we keep our heads down and work hard, while asking politely — but not for too much — we will be rewarded. We won’t be rewarded with power or freedom, but with safety and a little financial security. A chance for something slightly below middle-class white respectability. We didn’t believe this because we wanted less, or because we were naïve. To want more than that meager offering would cost you your job, your home, even your life. Complacency was necessary for survival.

Those who didn’t believe the lie, or those who wanted more, were branded as dangerous radicals, as opportunistic race-baiters, as ungrateful children. We were taught that Martin Luther King was a “good negro” who was soft-spoken and mild, while Malcolm X was a reverse-racist driven by hatred of white people. MLK’s assassination was shown as the martyrdom of a saint, while Malcolm X’s assassination was shown as the just and natural consequences of black audacity.

But our kids know they can be president. They know that this is their country and they are stepping up to claim it. They are demanding a future built in their image. And it is a beauty to behold.

Our kids are demanding a future built in their image. And it is a beauty to behold.
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When Black Lives Matter protesters interrupted prominent political events, those of us in the older generations took notice. These young kids, rushing the stage, demanding the mic, refusing to apologize for their anger, inspired me more than anything has in years — and scared white supremacy more than anything has in years.

Our kids are out there fighting for their lives. They’re fighting against police brutality, the school-to-prison pipeline, mass incarceration, discriminatory drug laws. It is an uphill battle met with resistance and danger at every step, but they keep fighting. When the news media labels them terrorists, they move to Twitter. When the old guard of civil rights leaders refuse to represent them, they decentralize and represent themselves. They pay heed to nobody. They don’t ask, they demand.

Our kids aren’t just fighting against the oppression that threatens their lives, they’re also fighting for the quality of living that they deserve. And their continued activism show that black youth are refusing to settle for less. It is not enough to just go to college, they demand the respect and safety that their tuition affords. It’s not enough to be in grad school, they demand the wages and benefits that their work deserves. It’s not enough to be on campus, they demand the ability to walk the halls without insult.

When the old guard of civil rights leaders refuse to represent them, they decentralize and represent themselves. They pay heed to nobody. They don’t ask, they demand.
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And if you do not give them what they demand, they will take you down. They will strike. They will march. They will shut down your sports programs. They will interrupt your recruitment events. They will broadcast your bigotry and ineptitude to the masses. In the case of the University of Missouri, they will force your resignation, and they won’t stop until those who have tried to hold them back are punished.

There is still a long way to go, and the deck is still stacked against our kids. They do need our support. But if you had asked me 5–10 years ago if a group of black college students could take down a university president, I would have laughed in your face. These kids are bolder than I could have ever imagined.

Our children are brash, brazen, and yes, as gloriously and righteously uppity as can be. They are a force to be reckoned with. It would be wise to step out of their way.