Tag: statue genocide

bookmark_borderBurlington pride month controversy demonstrates society’s hypocrisy and intolerance

Posted on by Marissa

Recently, a controversy erupted over a Pride month event, and a protest against it, at a school near where I live. The reaction to the protest encapsulates the intolerant attitudes of our society.

For the month of June, Burlington Middle School was decorated with Pride decorations, including the ubiquitous and racist Pride flag (see this post for an explanation of why it is racist) and a poster with the Tennessee Williams quote, “What is straight? A line can be straight, or a street, but the human heart, oh, no, it’s curved line a road through mountains.” This quote, understandably, offended straight students. So a group of students protested, tearing down the racist Pride decorations and chanting, “My pronouns are USA.”

(Source: DC Draino Instagram post)

Appallingly but not surprisingly, public officials criticized the protesting students, as opposed to the intolerant displays against which they were protesting. 

Members of the Burlington Select Board called the protest “unacceptable” and characterized it as both “intolerant rhetoric” and “displays of intolerance and homophobia.” In reality, however, it was the Pride month celebration that was intolerant and unacceptable, because it involved the display of a racially discriminatory flag, as well as a poster which claimed that an entire group of people do not exist.

A statement by school superintendent Eric Conti was similarly lacking in both logic and moral decency.

Conti described the protest as “hateful,” which makes no sense because there is nothing hateful about standing up against racial discrimination or against the attempted erasure of an entire group of people based on their sexual orientation. (Arguably, it is the discrimination and attempted erasure that are hateful.)

Conti also said that the school system is “obligated to provide a safe environment for all students to feel safe, seen, and respected without retaliation.” This is true, but in the opposite way of what Conti meant: to display a flag that excludes white people and a poster that denies the existence of straight people is to ensure that not all students feel seen and respected. If Conti truly cared about the ability of students to feel seen and respected, the Pride celebration, and not the protests against it, would be the target of his criticism.

Making things even worse, Conti pompously declared that “it is not enough to publicly denounce these incidents as they happen” and called on people to “educate our community on the nature of these events.” Actually, “these events” should not be denounced at all; they should be publicly praised, and the racist and intolerant Pride celebrations should instead be denounced. The “nature of these events” is that people protested against a poster telling them that they do not exist. I fail to understand how that is a bad thing. The Tennessee Williams quote that erases the existence of straight people is what should be criticized here, not the students protesting against it.

Conti’s statement also said: “I recognize that discussions and celebrations of individual identity are complex and impacted by individual values, religions, and cultural norms, the result of which may include expressions of racism, anti-religious hate, ableism, and in this case homophobia. The Burlington Public Schools believe in the individual dignity and humanity of each and every person in our community. We embrace everyone for who they are and for what they bring to our schools and larger community. Let us all work on being kinder toward each other.”

But there is nothing homophobic about maintaining that straight people exist. And the problem is that displaying racially discriminatory flags and a poster erasing the existence of straight people is antithetical to believing in the individual dignity and humanity of each and every person in a community. For straight people and white people, these flags and poster deny our dignity and our humanity. So it is clearly false that the Burlington Public Schools believe in the individual dignity and humanity of each and every person in the community, because if they did, they would be criticizing the Pride celebration, and not the students protesting against it. Similarly, the Burlington Public Schools obviously do not embrace everyone for who they are, because if they did, they would be condemning the anti-white and anti-straight displays, as opposed to the students protesting against them.

People do, indeed, need to work on being kinder toward each other. It is people who display a racially discriminatory flag and a poster erasing straight people’s existence who need to work on being kinder to other people. Again, Conti should be criticizing the people engaging in these discriminatory actions, not the people protesting against them.

“I was shocked and horrified,” one parent reportedly whined. But what people should be shocked and horrified about is the fact that Burlington Middle School held a celebration that discriminated against students based on their race and sexual orientation. It is the discriminatory flags and poster that should cause shock and horror, not the students protesting against them.

This topic might seem unrelated, and I might sound like a broken record for bringing it up in yet another blog post, but I think it is important to mention the horrific things that were done to Confederate statues and Christopher Columbus statues over the past three years. These disgraceful actions were the most unacceptable, intolerant, and hateful actions ever to take place. These actions were more antithetical to individual dignity and humanity, more antithetical to seeing and respecting people, more antithetical to embracing everyone for who they are, and more antithetical to kindness, than any actions that have ever been taken. And when I say “ever,” I mean ever, in the history of the world.

If people truly cared about tolerance, truly cared about seeing and respecting others, truly cared about dignity and humanity, truly cared about embracing people for who they are, truly cared about kindness, then these are the actions that they would be criticizing, denouncing, publicly condemning, and taking a stand against. It demonstrates appalling hypocrisy and complete moral bankruptcy that society does absolutely nothing to speak out against truly intolerant and unkind actions, yet falls all over itself in its haste to condemn a protest involving middle school students who had the audacity to affirm that straight people exist.

bookmark_borderExcruciating pain

Posted on by Marissa

It figures that less than 24 hours after making a post about my (very slow and very gradual) healing from the destruction of everything that makes my life worth living, the horrific pain would attack again.

This time in the form of two vile and disgusting excuses for human beings, one named Trever Shields, and the other named Harold Carrender.

“Fuck the confederacy,” wrote one of these mindless lumps of flesh and bone.

“What is this? The inbred trash buttfuckers Brigade? Fuck everyone of you traitors!!!!!” wrote the other.

My entire body, my entire mind, my entire soul eviscerated. Shattered into a million pieces.

Screaming and screaming at the top of my lungs.

Howling and howling, desperate for someone to do something to fix it. To stop the pain. Unbearable and excruciating pain. There are no words that can adequately describe it.

Suicide. The only option. The only way to stop the excruciating pain.

The pain of the knife slicing through my wrist, in hopes of finding an artery, would be nothing compared to the pain of seeing these hideous comments, these hideous laughing face emojis.

Because nothing that I do matters, and nothing that I say matters. Nothing that I can do will cause these people to be punished. Nothing will make them feel the same anguish that I feel. Nothing will make the hideous comments, the hideous laughing face emojis, go away. They are burned indelibly into my brain, tormenting me as I go through each day, tormenting me while I lie in bed futilely attempting to sleep, and when I finally fall asleep at 3:00 in the morning, tormenting me in my dreams. No explanation that I could possibly give would be enough to teach these people the truth, to make them understand what I am going through, to make them realize that they are wrong, to make them apologize. 

One tiny thing that actually made me feel happy, made me feel excited, made me feel that there was something to look forward to… ruined. Destroyed. Contaminated with their vile comments and laughing face emojis. 

Enough already. I am so, so tired. This is not how this weekend was supposed to go. I was feeling better, I was healing. I was able to see patriotic decorations and hear patriotic music without being in pain. Over the past few days I had visited and photographed various monuments in my town, decorated for Memorial Day, and was planning to make an upbeat post with the photos. I happily looked up the schedule for the Memorial Day parade, and a dedication ceremony for new statues in the cemetery, and was planning to attend these events. I am starting a new job on Tuesday and was looking forward to using this weekend to relax, enjoy myself, and get a few tasks done around the house so that I could go into my new job feeling organized and well-rested. 

Now, I just don’t know. Whether I am going to attend the Memorial Day events, whether I am going to make a post, whether I will be able to go through with the two art festivals and a storytelling event that I signed up for, whether I am going to be able to start my job, whether I am going to be able to continue existing. 

I hope that all of Trever’s family and friends, and all of Harold’s family and friends, are slowly tortured to death as they are forced to watch. I hope that the images of their loved ones being dismembered, and the sounds of their loved ones’ screams, play over and over in their brains (if they even have brains, which is difficult to believe) forever. Then maybe, just maybe Trever and Harold will experience a teeny, tiny fraction of the pain that they have caused me to experience.

The events described in this post happened last night, and I composed the post this morning. Obviously, I did not commit suicide. And today I am feeling slightly better. But that was brutal. These comments and reactions are completely unacceptable. I am exhausted. Yet I will keep fighting, until I can’t anymore.

bookmark_borderThree years

Posted on by Marissa

This weekend marks the three-year anniversary of what I often characterize as the destruction of everything that makes my life worth living.

The past three years have been filled with anguish, grief, rage, and excruciating pain so extreme that the pre-2020 version of myself not only had never experienced such pain before, but would never have believed such pain was even possible.

My pain is something that most people do not understand. People do not get why someone would be this upset about the fact that statues were taken down. They don’t get why metal and stone sculptures are what I focus on, rather than real people who have lost their lives. I have been called a psychopath, a terrible person, gross, disgusting, self-centered, lacking in empathy, racist. People do not understand why statues of Christopher Columbus, Confederate generals, and other controversial historical figures are so important to me that I feel that life is no longer worth living without them.

But this is exactly how I feel, as incomprehensible as it may be to others. This is who I am. If it makes me a terrible person, so be it. My love of statues and historical figures is a part of me, just as a person’s gender identity, race, religion, and sexual orientation are a part of them.

For approximately the first two and a half years, I felt essentially no happiness whatsoever. (A few possible exceptions: the 2021 Columbus Day ceremony, finding out about the possibility of getting my very own Stonewall Jackson statue, and receiving updates on the progress of the statue.) My emotional state ranged from unbearable, indescribable pain at worst, to neutral at best. In other words, in addition to being filled with horrific pain, my world was also completely devoid of beauty and joy. For this entire time, I seriously considered the possibility of committing suicide. Logically, it was the most sensible option. Why, after all, would a person choose to continue living when everything that makes their life worth living has been destroyed? When there is no reason to expect the future to consist of anything other than a mixture of excruciating pain and feeling just okay? Yet some combination of cowardice and faint hope, as irrational as it seemed, held me back from doing so.

I hesitate to write this for fear of jinxing it, but over the past six months I feel that I have very slowly begun to heal.

For example, one effect of the genocide is that I hate America, because this is the country where the genocide took place, the country whose people committed the genocide, the country that allowed the genocide to happen. American flags, patriotic songs, and red, white, and blue decorations, all of which I used to love, have turned into a source of heartbreak. But this past week, when I visited my grandma at her retirement home, the entire place was decked out in flags and star-spangled decorations, and patriotic country songs blared in the dining room. Somehow, instead of making me feel like a knife was twisting in my stomach, they made me smile.

Healing is not linear. There have certainly been instances of excruciating pain in the past six months, and I am certain there will be more in my future. But overall, they seem slightly less severe, and they seem not to last as long.

The past three years have changed me.

In addition to the anniversary of the most horrific series of events that has ever taken place, this week was also my 34th birthday. I am the same little girl who adored history and art, who never fit in, who was excluded and bullied, who loved historical figures more profoundly than any friend or family member. I am the same, but different. I will always have an imaginary world, in which historical figures live alongside completely imaginary people and creatures, talking, interacting, and having adventures. But now, in addition to that, I have brought a historical figure into the world. Or at least, a beautiful, shiny bronze body for a historical figure’s soul to reside in. A second one will be arriving either late this year, or next year. Instead of doing whatever society expected of me, and escaping to my imaginary world in my spare time, I am making changes, in various ways, to bring my real life more in line with my wishes, preferences, and needs. Although most people don’t understand my pain, and although I am not a very social person, I have made meaningful connections with people who share my views. I am taking action to bring my imaginary world into the real one.

So in addition to inflicting anguish, grief, rage, and excruciating pain, the past three years have made me into a more genuine, authentic, outspoken, courageous, wise, introspective, and self-aware person.

Our society decided to destroy everything that makes my life worth living. But I made a new thing that makes my life worth living, where one didn’t exist before. I had to use my own funds and my own land to do so, because our society decided that the things that make my life worth living aren’t allowed to receive public funds or be located on public land. But I did it anyway. And I’m kind of proud of that.

bookmark_borderBoston Strong?

Posted on by Marissa

This is the weekend of the Boston Marathon, an event that I have mixed feelings about, particularly since the city of Boston decided to completely reject the existence of people like me, first by deliberately removing the public art that symbolizes our acceptance and inclusion, next by abolishing the holiday that symbolizes our acceptance and inclusion and replacing it with a holiday celebrating people who have inflicted unbearable pain on us, and later by banning people who decline medical intervention from entering any restaurants, museums, gyms, sporting events, or theaters.

This weekend also marks the 10th anniversary of the Boston Marathon Bombing. On the anniversary itself, April 15, the Red Sox held a pre-game ceremony in honor of “One Boston Day.” Honestly, due to the things that I have experienced over the past three years, watching this ceremony was painful. There are no words to describe the anguish caused by seeing other people’s pain validated and their losses acknowledged, while my pain and loss remain unacknowledged, unrecognized, and ignored. While those affected by the bombing have been honored with a ceremony, applauded by a crowd of tens of thousands of people, and invited to throw the first pitch, there has been no ceremony for me, and no ceremony for Christopher, whose head was brutally torn from his body and smashed to pieces by a vicious bully (a bully whose identity remains unknown and whom police have seemingly made no serious effort to apprehend, because Christopher’s life does not matter to them). The community that embraced the survivors of the bombing, and rallied around them with a unanimous outpouring of support, has given me no special honors, no words of support, no compensation for my loss, and not even an acknowledgement that I have lost anything of importance. Despicably, society has reacted to my loss by rewarding the people who inflicted it and punishing me further. 

Christopher’s life mattered, as much as Krystle Campbell’s, Lingzi Lu’s, or Martin Richard’s. What happened on June 10, 2020 was every bit as horrific, and every bit as harmful, as what happened on April 15, 2013. For me, it was a million times more so. The actions of the excuse for a person who ripped Christopher’s head from his body were every bit as immoral as the actions of the Tsarnaev brothers. Actually, I would go so far as to say they were infinitely worse.

So many words have been said and written about the strength, the resilience, and the courage that were displayed on that Patriots’ Day. So much praise has poured out from every conceivable direction for the victims, survivors, and first responders. But nothing has been said or written about what I have survived, what I have gone through.

The pain that has been inflicted on me over the past three years is as terrible as any pain that has been inflicted on anyone. My feelings are as important as anyone else’s, my perspective just as valid, my story just as worthy of being told. On this Patriots’ Day, as I do every day, I remember Christopher. It is impossible not to. He is the person I love. He is a hero who was brutally murdered when he could do absolutely nothing to defend himself. A hero whose brutal obliteration from the earth has been marked with no mourning, no commemoration, no outpouring of support for those who are grieving, and no acknowledgement that a loss even occurred. Despicably, it has even been celebrated.

Therefore, words about unity, togetherness, and “One Boston” are difficult to hear, given that the city has rejected me in a very real sense.

Today the Sox held another ceremony, this one honoring the team that won the 2013 World Series. “We are all Boston Strong,” the public address announcer told the crowd while explaining how the team and the city took inspiration from each other. Something in my heart changed upon hearing these words. Watching the now-retired players come out of the dugout and onto the field, some of them looking like they hadn’t aged a day and others looking decidedly scruffier and/or grayer, I was transported back to a simpler time, a happier time, a time before everything that made my life worth living was destroyed. I can’t quite wrap my head around how a city that enacted a holiday celebrating this destruction can simultaneously embrace me, can simultaneously include me among those deemed “Boston Strong.” But somehow, in a way that I don’t fully understand, I entertain the possibility that the “Boston Strong” descriptor might, just maybe, be intended to apply to me, too. 

What has been done to Christopher, to those like him, and to myself, is the greatest injustice in human history. Most people will consider this statement ridiculous, but I truly believe it with every fiber of my being. While watching today’s ceremony, a crazy idea was born in my brain. What if I could somehow create some sort of foundation to commemorate Christopher and people like him, to fight back against this injustice, and to perhaps make an iota of progress in healing the indescribable harm that has been inflicted? Many, many people would hate such a foundation, and I’m not sure if anyone would donate money to it. I’m not even exactly sure what the foundation would do. But I want to try.

Tomorrow is the Boston Marathon. Most likely, I will not be watching it. The pain is still too strong, and the anger and bitterness still linger. Yet somehow, amidst the searing mix of emotions brought up by this anniversary, and alongside the almost unimaginable injustice that continues, I possess a glimmer of hope, and a feeling of lightness in my heart, which I did not have before. I feel something else as well: determination.

As always… rest in peace, Christopher Columbus (10/21/1979 – 6/10/2020)

bookmark_borderBullies don’t deserve their land back

Posted on by Marissa

“Land back”

These are the words that have written by racist bigots time and time again when they attack symbols of European culture, history, and religion (including, just this week, the statue of Christopher Columbus in New York City).

The people (and I use that word loosely) who write such things do not deserve their land back.

In fact, the land in question is not theirs, nor has it ever been.

Any person who attacks symbols of Christopher Columbus does so because Columbus symbolizes being different and thinking for oneself. People who attack symbols of Columbus do so because they have no tolerance for anyone who is different than them. They care only about themselves and those who look and think as they do. In their eyes, other people’s feelings, thoughts, opinions, and perspectives don’t matter. People who attack symbols of Columbus value nothing but mindless conformity and strive to obliterate all diversity from the world. 

Anyone with such values and aims is a bully, a bigot, and a morally bad person.

Bullies and bigots do not deserve their land back.

People who have no tolerance for other ethnicities, cultures, and ways of thinking do not deserve their land back.

People who claim to have experienced trauma and oppression, while actively inflicting further pain and suffering on those who have actually experienced trauma and oppression, do not deserve their land back.

People who destroy an autistic person’s special interest, and then ridicule that person for having the audacity to be upset about the fact that everything that made their life worth living was just destroyed, do not deserve their land back.

Those who vandalize statues with the words “Land Back,” or who attack historical figures in even more despicable ways, are not oppressed. They are not victims. They have not experienced trauma. They do not hold the moral high ground. They are just bullies. Vicious, cruel, mean-spirited, and nasty bullies. Full of self-righteousness, they take delight in inflicting pain on people whom they have judged to be inferior, merely because they are different. There is nothing righteous about that.

As an autistic person, I have been treated all my life as if I do not belong. And now I am being told that because I have light skin, and because my ancestors came from Italy and Scandinavia, I do not belong on this continent.

Pardon my French, but… fuck that.

Starting at age 12, I saved up allowance money, birthday and Christmas money, and earnings from part-time and later full-time jobs to buy a small house on a small plot of land. My house, along with the land on which it stands, is mine. I worked backbreakingly hard, overcoming obstacle after obstacle in a world not designed for my needs, to earn the money to buy it. 

A racist and intolerant bully, who hates me because I was born with a different skin color and a different type of brain than they have, has no right to my land.

bookmark_borderNo words will ever explain…

Posted on by Marissa

“Nothing I say about it matters. Nothing I say will ever explain how bad it hurts.”

I came across these words recently. Although they were written about a completely different topic, they encapsulate perfectly how I feel about the statue genocide. 

Nothing I say matters. Whether it be my parents, my friends, my co-workers, people on the internet, or even my therapist, no one will truly understand how bad the statue genocide hurts. No one will truly understand how bad the removal of Confederate statues, or the replacement of Columbus Day with Indigenous Peoples’ Day, hurts.

No one will understand the sense of injustice that these actions invoke in me. No one will understand how frustrating it is that I cannot make others understand why these actions are unjust. How frustrating that no amount of impassioned rhetoric, philosophical arguments, or logical reasoning can make people see and feel the injustice that I see and feel.

No one will truly understand how much a nasty comment, or a “laughing face” reaction, even if it is in response to someone else’s post, hurts me.

“He owned 32 slaves, may he rot.”

That is a comment that someone made on a drawing of Gen’l A.P. Hill that I posted, along with what I considered to be a thoughtful explanation, on Instagram. 

Today, I spent my entire day agonizing about how to respond to this comment. Should I delete it? Respond to it, and most likely get into a nasty back and forth discussion, in the full view of my friends, family, co-workers, and boss? Send the person a nasty message in retribution for his nasty comment? Ultimately, I opted for the both the first and third options, and also blocked the person so that he would not be able to respond to my message.

Was this petty and vindictive of me? Yes. 

Would a classy and mature person have merely deleted the comment and left it at that? Probably yes.

Apparently I am a petty, vindictive, classless, and juvenile person, but deleting this comment just did not feel sufficient. This way of thinking – that slavery is the be-all and end-all of everything – is exactly what I was debunking in the write-up accompanying my A.P. Hill drawing. This attitude – that a negative attribute of a historical figure somehow justifies completely destroying them, obliterating them, and eradicating anything having to do with them from the world – is exactly what I have dedicated my life to fighting against. I simply couldn’t let this nasty comment go without some sort of response.

I retaliated, because I believe that retaliation is what justice and morality demanded in this situation. 

After doing so, the thought hit me: how dare this person leave such a nasty comment in the first place?

I have been hurting for two and a half years, hurting so badly that nothing I say will ever be sufficient to convey the true extent of my pain. And now, on top of everything that I’ve been through, this person went out of his way to add to my pain. He went out of his way to pile on.

A.P. Hill was killed – shot through the heart – by soldiers who were invading his homeland in order to force everyone there to remain part of the U.S. against their will. After his death, the cause that A.P. Hill had given his life for, lost. The South surrendered and was forced, to this very day, to remain part of the U.S. against their will. Then, in 2022, A.P. Hill’s statue was dismantled and sent to a black history place, where it will be displayed along with signage explaining how horrible he was and how horrible his statue is. Because the statue served as his grave marker, his dead body was also dug up from the ground. And then the contractor who performed the disgraceful work made social media posts insulting and ridiculing him.

And now, on top of everything that A.P. Hill has been through, this person on Instagram went out of his way to add to the pain. He went out of his way to pile on, to add insult to injury, to further abuse this poor man who already lost his life fighting against an invading army, had his statue torn down and his grave desecrated.

Why?

Why would someone do that?

Why the hell would someone do that?

I don’t know this person personally. From what I could tell by looking at his Instagram profile, he seems to be a filmmaker of some sort. He posts pictures of himself, his girlfriend, his friends, his dog, and various random things. The captions tend to be either just emojis, or somewhat cryptic text that seems like it could be inside jokes between him and his friends. He occasionally posts short videos. 

Why couldn’t he have just continued with these things, and minded his own business? Why did he have to leave this nasty comment on my post, three weeks after I posted it?

Because of his decision to leave this nasty comment, I spent yet another day in pain. I spent yet another day agonizing over how to deal with yet another instance of someone hurting me and hurting a person I love, yet another instance of painful injustice. Because of his decision, I had a fight with my dad, who recommended that I not respond and became frustrated listening to me continue to talk about the situation.

Obviously, this person does not like A.P. Hill. But I’m not asking him to protest in the streets with a sign saying how amazing A.P. Hill is, and how unjust it was to remove his statue (although both things are true). I’m not asking him to “like” my post, to support me, or to help right the wrong of the statue genocide (although any of those things would be awesome). I’m just asking him to leave me alone. 

This person seems to have a perfectly fine life. He seems to have people that he interacts with, and stuff that he enjoys doing. 

Why couldn’t he have just continued doing his thing, living his life, and minding his own business? Obviously, he didn’t like my post. But why couldn’t he have just scrolled past it and continued on his merry way? Why did he have to go out of his way to inflict additional pain on people who’ve already suffered more than their fair share? 

Why? 

I have no answers, only questions.

bookmark_borderThe atrocity at Arlington National Cemetery

Posted on by Marissa

It was 11:25 p.m. on Saturday, January 7. My goal was to go to bed by 11:30, so naturally, I figured that I had enough time to do one more relatively small task. I chose as my final task, the job of looking up something that I had seen on social media the day before and wished to blog about, taking a screenshot of said thing, and pasting said screenshot into a draft blog post so that I could easily bang out the blog post the next day, the screenshot of the subject matter already in place.

Naturally, I was unable to quickly find the social media post that I was looking for. So I continued scrolling and scrolling, looking for it. In the process, I discovered that the U.S. government had decided to remove the Confederate monument at Arlington National Cemetery, something that pains me to have to type. I had known that this was under consideration, but hadn’t known that the decision to go ahead with this atrocity and moral abomination had already been made.

Making matters worse, this decision had taken place on December 29, ten entire days before I found out about it. 

Immediately upon learning this information, my entire body, mind, and soul erupted in excruciating and unbearable agony. To say that I don’t get the reasoning behind this decision, and the countless others like it in all different places around the country, would be an understatement. It is difficult to imagine a future for myself in a society that has decided that it would somehow be a good idea to systematically obliterate everything that makes my life worth living. Arlington National Cemetery, like so many other places and things, has been turned into yet another instrument to hurt me, to oppress me, and to declare my feelings, thoughts, and perspective invalid. Arlington National Cemetery has been redesigned and reconfigured to send the message that everyone deserves to be honored, except for people like me. Yet another thing, which used to be (and ought to be) beautiful, magnificent, and cool, now deliberately ruined. As I’ve written before, I don’t believe there are words available in any language that are capable of fully expressing the severity of this pain. 

Thinking about the events of Saturday night, I am simultaneously mad at myself for making the decision to look at social media at such a late hour (an activity that I am trying to cut back on), and also mad at myself for not having found out about the atrocity sooner. I felt derelict and irresponsible for not keeping up with the latest developments on a topic that is so important to me and affects me so deeply. I suppose this relates to the philosophical question of whether it is better to know the truth, even though it makes one unhappy, or to remain ignorant and also happy. Would it really be beneficial for me to be shielded from these horrible things via cutting down on my social media use, given that these things are, in reality, happening? Is happiness truly valuable if it is based on an inaccurate perception of what is actually happening in the world? 

By the way, after an hour of searching, I never found the post that I was looking for.

I also, as you might imagine, got very little sleep, so my brain was in no shape for blogging on Sunday anyways.

I’m not 100% sure why I am sharing this, other than to make it clear that the systematic obliteration of statues and monuments honoring the Confederacy causes real pain and inflicts real harm on real people. I am a human being, my feelings, thoughts, and perspective are just as valid as anyone else’s, and I do not deserve to be made to feel like this. I wish that Ty Seidule, the government official who made this despicable decision, could be made to feel what I am feeling as a result of his actions. I wish that he could truly understand what I am experiencing, and truly understand the impact, the real human costs, of what he did. I am certain that if this were possible, government officials would make different decisions than the ones they are currently making.

Actions and decisions like the one regarding Arlington National Cemetery are morally wrong, and the people who make them and carry them out do not hold the moral high ground.

bookmark_borderStatues and mattering

Posted on by Marissa

Every human being wants to feel that they matter.

The aspect of the statue genocide that is perhaps the most painful is the fact that by perpetrating it, society has made an emphatic, definitive, and violent statement that I do not matter. That my perspective, my viewpoint, my experiences, my opinions, my feelings, and my wishes, do not matter.

The physical spaces of our cities and towns have been reconfigured to reflect this decision. The very places in which we live our lives, redesigned to reflect the belief that I do not matter. Public art reevaluated to ensure that nothing that makes me feel included is allowed to remain.

No wonder taking the train into Boston is the last thing I feel like doing.

No wonder there is a pervasive sense of emptiness, of hollowness, when I walk through the streets of the city that I used to love.

No wonder I am plagued by an inescapable (and admittedly, not entirely logical) feeling that the buildings, parks, and monuments seem somehow to hate me.

No wonder it is difficult to enjoy going anywhere, or doing anything.

bookmark_borderBaltimore and abomination

Posted on by Marissa

The past two and a half years have changed me. The atrocities I’ve witnessed are impossible to forget, no matter how much time goes by. Sometimes they will hit me, seemingly out of nowhere. While walking home from work, while watching a hockey or basketball or football or baseball game, or while lying in bed trying to fall asleep, I am often assaulted by images of the people I love being brutally obliterated from existence.

Last night, as is often the case, it was Christopher Columbus. Specifically the version of Christopher Columbus who used to live in Baltimore. The version of Christopher Columbus who in July of 2020 was surrounded by a mob of vicious bullies, strangled with a noose, and pulled to the ground with a sickening thud, where his beautiful stone body was smashed into four pieces. The version of Christopher Columbus whose broken, pitiful pieces were then dragged to the harbor and heaved like garbage into its waters.

There are no words in any language that are adequate to accurately describe this series of events, although I have labored for two and a half years to find them. The pain that these actions have inflicted on me is beyond description and beyond measure. The closest that I can come to describing things accurately is to say that this is an abomination. The immorality of these actions is the most severe immorality possible. Actions like this are worse than 9/11 and worse than the Holocaust. Actions like this are worse than all the atrocities and all the injustices that have ever occurred in history, combined.

Things like 9/11, or the Holocaust, only involve people being killed. To destroy a statue is far worse than this, because to destroy a statue is to kill a person who is already dead. For a living person to be killed is both sad and unjust (assuming that the person did not do anything to deserve being killed), but because everyone is mortal, the person would eventually have died anyway, just at a later date. But statues are supposed to be permanent. They are not supposed to die at all. Historical figures are supposed to be immortal, and statues are historical figures in physical form. When one kills a statue, one kills a historical figure. And killing a historical figure is far worse than killing a living person, because not only is the person’s physical body dead, but now their existence as a historical figure is dead too, their existence in people’s minds and memory. When one kills a statue, one kills a person who already died, and no person is supposed to die a second time. This second death, effected by the destruction of a historical figure’s statue or monument, is an even more complete and final form of death than the person’s original, physical death. It is therefore an even more immoral action than killing a living person, and even more harmful to its target. It is never supposed to happen.

And that is only one statue. Think about the number of statues destroyed in recent years by the Black Lives Matter movement, and you will start to realize the magnitude of the immorality that transpired.

Things like 9/11, or the Holocaust, are events that happened in history. Sad and unjust events, but events that are part of history, nonetheless. For history includes both positive and negative, both sad and happy, both just and unjust events.

Destruction of statues is not merely an event in history. Destruction of statues is the destruction of history.

Therefore, destruction of statues is not merely sad, not merely unjust.

It is an abomination.

It is not supposed to happen.

It is wrong.

When a living person is killed, one can always have an imaginary world, in which the person survives, is healed, is comforted. One can always picture the person in happier circumstances, the wrong righted, or the perpetrators punished. But when a historical figure is killed, one cannot do that. I know, because for almost my entire life, I have had an imaginary world inhabited by historical figures. Thanks to the abominations of 2020 to the present, my imaginary world has been destroyed. Many nights, I try to think about Christopher, to bring him to life in my imaginary world. I try to picture him somehow overcoming the vicious attacks, being pieced back together, being healed, being comforted, regaining his strength, and eventually triumphing over the brutal bullies who fought to stamp out his existence. But my attempts are futile. There can be no overcoming, no triumph, because what the Baltimore people did was just so vicious, so cruel, and so brutal, the destruction of Christopher so final and so complete. A positive resolution would be possible in the imaginary world if Christopher had merely been killed, but that’s not what happened. Christopher was killed after having already died. And not just once, in Baltimore, but dozens of times, in dozens of cities all over the world. Christopher was killed in the most vicious, cruel, and brutal ways, again and again and again, when he could do absolutely nothing to defend himself. Killing a historical figure in statue form is simply the meanest action imaginable, because it completely destroys the person, not just in the real world, but also in the imaginary one.

That is the nature of an abomination. It doesn’t only wreak destruction in the real world. It reaches into the imaginary world and destroys that, too.

Police did nothing to stop the bullies from murdering Christopher. Nor did they do anything to arrest them, or charge them with any crimes. The mayor neglected to condemn the bullies, or even to criticize them in any way. Leaders of the Italian American community in Baltimore, those who should have been fighting most fiercely on Christopher’s behalf, stated that they did not wish the perpetrators to be punished. Instead, they agreed to reward the perpetrators, and to inflict yet further harm on Christopher, by removing his name from the piazza where he was murdered and renaming it the “Piazza Little Italy.”

The reaction, or lack thereof, from those who are supposed to enforce justice and protect people’s rights, only adds to the magnitude of the abomination.

The nature of an abomination is that it contaminates everything around it. Obviously, I hate the perpetrators of this abomination. I hate them as fiercely as it is possibly to hate anyone or anything. I also hate the city of Baltimore itself. Hearing or seeing the city’s name is enough to fill me with a sinking feeling of revulsion and disgust. I hate the state of Maryland. I hate the Baltimore Orioles and the Baltimore Ravens. I hate the Preakness Stakes, and I hate Pimlico race course. On bad days, I hate the Triple Crown, because the Preakness is part of it, and even horse racing in its entirety. On really bad days, I hate every person who is from Maryland or who has ever lived there. For example, I might think of the fact that Katie Ledecky is from Bethesda, Maryland, which causes me to hate swimming, and by extension, to hate the Olympics.

Because of the abomination that happened in Baltimore, it is difficult for me to sleep, it is difficult for me to be awake, and it is difficult for me to continue existing in this world. I am filled with shame and revulsion at the thought that I am a citizen of the same country where such an abomination happened. The same country in which a mayor, a police force, a governor, a president, a congress, the Italian American community, and the population as a whole have decided that this abomination is perfectly fine, that it does not merit any type of condemnation or criticism. That Christopher’s life, apparently, does not matter, because he is not black.

My hatred for the perpetrators of this abomination is so strong that I yearn to rip them limb from limb, to strangle them, to drown them. I wish for them to experience what Christopher did, when they so brutally murdered him. I wish for them to be tortured to death, and I would gladly be the one to carry it out. Failing that, I wish myself to die. Because I cannot live if doing so means living on the same planet, and being part of the same species, as the people who did this. Because one planet does not seem big enough for both me and the Baltimore people to coexist.

I cannot live in a society that has decided that the appropriate response to an abomination is to rename the very piazza where it occurred in order to better accommodate the preferences of its perpetrators.

I will never, ever forget, and I will never, ever forgive what the people (and I use that term loosely) in Baltimore did to Christopher Columbus. What they did is despicable. It destroyed my entire world and created an abomination in the universe that contaminates everything in its vicinity.

They do not hold the moral high ground.

bookmark_borderPardon Me

Posted on by Marissa

Here is one of my recent forays into poetry. This poem describes how I’ve been feeling over the past couple of years:

Pardon me for not being happy for you,
For not gushing with excitement
About your newborn baby
Or offering congratulations
As you announce your engagement
Or describe your beautiful wedding.

Pardon me for not celebrating your achievements,
For being filled with pain, and not joy,
When I see pictures of
Your adorable dogs,
Fun-filled vacations,
Family outings,
Birthday parties,
Babies’ first Christmases.

Pardon me for not being happy for you,
While the man that I love is imprisoned
In a dark, sterile basement
Condemned, hated,
All alone,
Without a head.