The moment brought me back to reality: I know nothing about these people. I was more bothered by this development than I should have been. While I knew these people didn’t live in the little box I had created for them, couldn’t they at least wait until I left the beach to step out of it?
It can feel like us vs. them, heroes vs. villains, teachers vs. everyone who doesn’t understand how hard it is to explain the present participle to kids who can barely read.
I’m carrying around the symbol of someone’s desire to be with me the rest of his life. That’s awkward, especially since there’s no protocol for me reciprocating the gesture.
My analysis and rebuke of them or others does not preclude me from the same sins. Pointing fingers at someone else’s misogyny does not excuse my own sexism.
…Now what?, we wondered. Do you buy a bumper sticker or put a note up on Facebook? (Not that those are bad things, but they sure seem to fall short.)
I am always frustrated because at the end of every episode they catch the killer. Everything gets wrapped up nicely. No loose ends. Fly home, see family, roll credits.
The kids at school refer to the local corner stores by their owners’ names, and I’m starting to think bodega owners are the true heroes of New York.
And Amazon, for all its bullying and undercutting, holds no monopoly. It is, in fact, the opposite: a monopsonist, a beloved monster reversing the grapes of wrath, in a sense, so product flows like honey while the sellers rot.
No human is purely hero or purely villain, and I think most of us would agree that the very best stories reflect this complexity, this beautiful mess.
While Superman is out saving the world and dating incredibly attractive women, I’m covered in grime, decidedly without any lingerie models throwing themselves at my feet.
