i nod closed mouthed in a gesture i believe to convey quiet bravery
standing at the intercity bus stop that overlooks a bit of the Schuylkill River, the seagulls sweep across the gray sky in silence, and the gently lapping water mimics my blood; if i broaden my gaze, it looks like almost no movement at all. the river reflects off the sky, reflecting off of me. it’s cold at 8:30 in the morning, i’m not wearing enough layers, and the bus won’t arrive for another 20 minutes. the view from here reminds me of the canal below the studio on race street, where we create dances about holes and fitting into them, rest against beams that bisect the room, and glide on the perimeters with song and time. but this river, i know very little about and have not collaborated with yet. though my neighbor once told me that the Schuylkill is perfectly swimmable if you just go a little north. and then he licked a mirror found on the side of the street when no one even dared him to.
*
i am in the lower east side before noon. essex market is crowded with holiday market and I accidently order a quiche with raisins and almonds in it, my cortado tastes burnt. the class i am taking online began several minutes ago. i am mostly fine with all of this once they are swimming in my stomach and I have found a place to sit down. i write “doing the thing i tell myself I want to do”2 at the top of my page in blue marker. the internet connection fails thrice before i start downloading zoom on my phone. by the time i am back out on the street, i am relieved to feel the cold air on my face. anna’s voice, finally clear, is offering the full length of the transformation of silence into language and action3. my legs carry me the distance of the whole essay, propelling me down each block, past the park, the subway station, past the cafe i will double back to sit in later, past the steps of the church whose stone wall i perch at briefly to wrap my scarf around my neck and record a list of times i’ve recently felt fear.
*
Of what had I ever been afraid? To question or to speak as I believed could have meant pain, or death. But we all hurt in so many different ways, all the time, and pain will either change or end . Death, on the other hand, is the final silence. And that might be coming quickly, now, without regard for whether I had ever spoken what needed to be said, or had only betrayed myself into small silences, while I planned someday to speak, or waited for someone else's words. And I began to recognize a source of power within myself that comes from the knowledge that while it is most desirable not to be afraid, learning to put fear into a perspective gave me great strength.
there is a heaviness in my chest, a whimper in my throat. we are all crying into our devices.
*
in an interview, cynthia erivo says of elphaba’s dance at the ozdust ballroom: “it wasn’t enough just to have a piece of choreography that needed to show the pain that she was enduring but also the surrender to being okay with being alone”.
i am sitting next to caroline in a theater otherwise full of strangers when i recognize her dance. the back of her hand pressed against her forehead, leaving her fingers free to flutter in the air; the whirl of her arms around her body, gathering up speed; her reach towards the corners of the dance floor. the heaviness in my chest returns. i am moved by her insistence and quiet bravery, her hat initially laid down in invitation. it is all deeply vulnerable and exposed, creating an immense swirl of pride and grief in my heart.
galinda joins her dance, meets her, mirrors it, and validates her movement— this witnessing is a relief. elphaba does not need it, and has done without a proper witness or true friend up until now, but that she gets it makes clear her want and reveals the necessity of having one’s existence and effort acknowledged.
*
writing and creating work feels so particularly vulnerable lately, here are some things that have been helpful to me in processing fear:
two films about recovering, healing, and moving forward through fear, disconnect, and shame:
* Columbus (2017) & Parachute (2023) **tw: this is about ED recovery**
* this episode of kening zhu’s podcast
* June Jordan’s poem:
I am the fallen/I am the cliff
After the last building the black and green river
pearls into darkness
Beyond the bars on my window the wind bangs every
bridge into the tree tops
Even the city sky becomes unspeakable
as flesh
See the white horse missing from the poem
* And Elphaba’s Ozdust Ballroom dance, of course. Just go see Wicked 💚
the title of this letter borrows it’s name from Sophie Robinson’s poem art in america
the title of Anna Fusco’s class when she guest taught writing the personal