First Thaw
An Unapologetic Throat Clearing [Yes, This is About ICE]
I peer over my son’s shoulder as he plays Roblox, reading the in-game chat. He’s playing a game called Creatures of Sonaria. Enabling the chat feature is new for us, and I monitor as best I can. Most of the time, the chat box is filled with harmless requests to trade or to ask for help when being attacked.
But on this night, my eyes land on a word that burns my heart when I see it. ICE.
Username1: ICE raided a house in my neighborhood this week. I’m scared.
Username2: They’re in my city, too. They’re everywhere.
Username3: Someone in my family is becoming an ICE agent. Sad.
Username4: They haven’t come to my state yet, but it’s only a matter of time. I’m scared too.
Initially, I hold my breath in discomfort, not expecting to read these confessions and unsure where the conversation might go. To my relief, the chat quickly returns to the game. I tend to operate from a general level of distrust of strangers in online game forums. But I move from being alarmed by the mention of ICE to feeling grateful that these players, most of whom are young kids, have a place to name and process what’s happening in the real world around them and within them. Even if it’s just to say out loud, in a virtual world with strangers, I’m scared or sad.
“I don’t have words. Where there is an absence of adequate words, my tears do the talking.”
—Brianna Pastor
The moment served as an opportunity to ask curious questions and have more conversations with my son. I realize I should probably be doing this more, opening the door, checking in with him—knowing how much, as an adult, I’m struggling every day with emotions of deep grief, flashes of rage, and gnawing helplessness.
We all need safe spaces to process our experiences.
I find safe expression in my journal pages and in conversations with my therapist. I can be messy, imperfect, raw, and claw my way through to my words in those private spaces. But even as I find words, I’m still not sure how to speak them or use my voice.
I’ve always been a quiet observer, a deep empath, a people-pleaser, and conflict-avoidant. I tend to keep my thoughts and opinions to myself, afraid of being misunderstood or shamed by others. Allowing myself to form, let alone share, an opinion is not something I’ve spent much time doing.
It’s safer not to have an opinion. It’s safer not to say. It’s safer not to hurt someone. It’s safer not to chance being wrong. It’s safer not to be misunderstood. It’s safer not to rock the boat, ruffle feathers, or anger anyone. It’s safer to be quiet.
But safer for whom?
“Sometimes privilege looks like being able to ignore a crisis that others are dying from.”
—Blair Imani
I’ve been trying to find words—my own silence pressurizing my chest to unbearable levels as I witness horror after horror, injustice after injustice, grief upon grief.
At some point, when facing a person or system that causes or perpetuates harm, whether to ourselves or our neighbors, we need to say, at a bare minimum, This is not okay.
“You’re allowed to say, ‘I’m no longer okay with this’—no matter how long you tolerated it. Even if you allowed it for years. Even if you told them it was okay. You can change your mind whenever you want. And if for whatever reason you couldn’t speak up then, it’s not too late to speak up now.”
—Zoe Crook
Like so many other creatives, writers, and humans, I’m wondering how to show up for my work while the world burns—and it’s always burning somewhere.
I’ve never wanted the spaces where I invite writers or readers in to be ones where I preach, tell anyone what to believe, or claim any one perspective is right or wrong. I’ve never wanted the spaces I create to be condemning if they’re meant to be healing. I’ve never wanted my words to cause harm or ostracize anyone.
And, if I’m to live out my life and work in alignment with my values of healing and hope, I cannot stand idly by or be silent about harm.
“I’ve talked so much about loving the world / without any idea how to do it.”
—Maggie Smith, from “Wild”
I’ve been healing and recovering my voice for the past decade—writing and creativity being essential practices in this process. And my work is to help others do the same. To speak freely. To grieve. To bear witness. To be curious, courageous, and compassionate. To regain autonomy and agency. To be empowered. To create a life of hope. I started writing to survive and heal from wounds and harm inflicted upon me. To sit by in silence while I witness others being wounded and harmed isn’t something I can do. To be in the “grief space,” while ignoring the causes of grief, isn’t something I can do.
The least I can do is attempt to write plainly about the harm and the evil—to write the darkness into light.
While the words frozen in my throat begin to thaw,1 I’ve been borrowing the language of poets and writers who have already cleared their throats, found the words, and courageously used their voices.
“Radicalized by basic human decency.” —Sharon McMahon
“Be unapologetic in speaking up for human rights.” —Yael Jamina
“Wherever there is hate, intolerance, violence, and evil, may the love be stronger. May the love be potent. May the love always win.” —Parm K.C.
“You can keep posting quotes about what’s wrong with the world, but you can’t change the system without changing how you show up in it. That’s where your power lives.” —Vex King
A grief I’ve been coming to understand and sit with over the last few years is that some people are far more hateful, vile, and dehumanizing than I ever realized.
The sheep are actually wolves—and even as they expose themselves, some sheep still follow.
At forty years old, I’ve been experiencing a loss of innocence and naivety about the world, much of which is due to my white privilege. Nazi Germany. Slavery. Jim Crow. Such evil studied in history classes—to think that darkness was conquered and rid of when, in fact, it's not history at all—and so many people have known this and have been shouting all along (I repent for the years I haven’t heard or understood).
Cruelty is alive and well—even in places that are supposed to be sanctuaries.2
People will elect a person convicted of deception and harm to be their leader and moral compass. People will participate in oppressive systems to keep their power and privilege. People will call immigrants animals. People will defend a man (and the system to which he belongs) who shoots a poet, a mother, a woman in her minivan packed with stuffies, and then call her a fucking bitch3 after shooting her. Christians will use the Lord’s name in vain, justify sin in the name of “grace,” and do something called sin-leveling—something that’s been done to me, only I didn’t realize it had a name. People I care about will not only side with ICE but step into its system and break my heart.
They’ve made their choices. I’m making mine.
“I found the world to be woefully lacking in safe places. So, I became one.”
—J. Warren Welch
My art is my voice and resistance.
Even as imperfect, shaky, and throat-clearing as it is.
People are being attacked and asking for help.
People are sad and afraid.
And it’s not a game.
Let me come to their aid how I can.
Let me use my voice for Good.
The title of this piece and this phrase were inspired by Maggie Smith’s poem “First Thaw.”
In fact, I now see that predators are drawn to places where the vulnerable seek safety.
I refuse to sanitize the actual words.