Tag: statues

bookmark_borderRemoving statues is the opposite of being welcoming and inclusive

Posted on by Marissa

I was sitting and drinking coffee when I learned something that made my brain explode. Just a second earlier, I had been talking with my parents about a mini snowman that someone had made on top of a mailbox, which I had spotted during my walk and found really cute and funny. But now their innocuous questions – Do you know who made it? Did you post the picture on Instagram? – made my brain physically hurt. Filled to capacity by the horrific news, it simply could not accept any more input.

I covered my ears. I could not process, let alone answer, the simple questions. The sounds of silverware and plates clattering at nearby tables were like bombs exploding in my cranium. A group of people walked behind me; to my tortured brain their chatter sounded like shrill screaming.

“What was this horrible news?” you might be wondering.

Good question.

The answer: the fact that the National Park Service reportedly planned to remove a statue of William Penn from Independence National Historic Park in Philadelphia, the historic site dedicated to the Declaration of Independence. The obliteration of Penn as a historical figure was planned in order, in the NPS’s words, to make the park more “welcoming” and “inclusive” (source here).

Nothing could be further from the truth.

I like historical figures. I like historical figures because I have been bullied and excluded all my life. I have never fit in with the people around me, and I have never been able to relate to them. I only relate to historical figures. By removing historical figures from public spaces, our society is ensuring that I cannot feel welcome or included in those spaces. This makes those spaces less, not more, welcoming and inclusive.

All of the people who wear the latest fashions, speak using the latest slang, listen to the latest music, watch the latest shows, and spend their time texting and face timing with their friends… they don’t need to feel more welcomed or included. They’ve felt welcome and included their entire lives, because they are the majority. It’s people like me, who wore plaid dresses and skirts, did their hair in pigtails, collected dolls and toy soldiers, listened to show tunes and Disney music, and spent their time making paper dolls and reading about historical figures… it’s people like me who have faced a lifetime of exclusion because of how we dress, how we talk, what we like, and how we spend our time. It’s people like me who need, and deserve, to feel more welcomed and included.

But instead, our society has decided to make people like me feel less welcomed and included. Removing statues, removing the names of historical figures from buildings and streets, replacing Columbus Day with Indigenous Peoples’ Day… these actions create a less, not more, welcoming and inclusive world. After spending a lifetime feeling excluded at school, in extracurricular activities, online, and in social groups, I have now, for the past three and a half years, been forced to witness the public spaces of our country being reconfigured using cranes and work crews to ensure that I feel excluded there, too.

Historical figures are me. Historical figures are the only people I can relate to. By eliminating them from public spaces, our society has also eliminated any possibility for me to exist in those spaces without being filled with grief, anger, and pain. Society has actively transformed public space to ensure that people like me do not feel welcomed or included there.

So, no. Removing a statue of William Penn does not make a park more welcoming or inclusive. It does the opposite.

And then there is the obvious fact that removing something is, by its very nature, the opposite of being inclusive. Think about it: removing something from a space necessarily means that fewer things are now being included in that space. Removing a statue necessarily means that fewer historical figures are now being depicted, fewer stories being told, fewer perspectives being represented. That’s the antithesis of being inclusive.

As a commenter on the post linked above astutely wrote, “Not inclusive of white people… If they want ‘inclusive’ history why not just add it?”

Exactly.

I began this blog post by describing my experience in the coffee shop in order to demonstrate that the National Park Service, by coming up with the plan to remove the William Penn statue, actively inflicted harm on me as an autistic person. The NPS’s actions directly caused me emotional distress and directly caused my brain to explode in agonizing pain. Yet another way in which the NPS’s decision is the opposite of being welcoming and inclusive.

There is, however, a nugget of good news in this story. According to more recent reports (see comments section of source linked above) the NPS has changed their mind and now does not intend to do anything to the statue of William Penn. Fingers crossed that this is correct.

bookmark_borderReflections on the past few years…

Posted on by Marissa

As the year 2024 begins, I am going to get a bit introspective and take a look back on the past few years…

2020 was, frankly, the worst year of my life. I didn’t share the extent of my struggles at the time, but the events going on in the world – the Covid pandemic and the policies implemented in response to it, the 2020 election, and the protests that resulted in statues being removed and torn down – really negatively impacted my mental health. Particularly the statues. For reasons that are difficult to explain, I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I was extraordinarily angry and sad about what had happened, and it affected work, friendships, hobbies, and every area of my life. No one understood why I felt so strongly about metal and stone sculptures. I felt alone, I felt unheard, and I felt powerless to change anything.

2021 was a difficult year as well. The horrible things happening to the statues continued, as did the pandemic and the authoritarian actions taken in response to it. Feeling that I needed a major change in my life, I left my job and started a completely different one, which came with mixed emotions. I did experience some glimmers of hope, however: I connected with fellow Italian Americans who share my love of Christopher Columbus, and while scrolling through social media, I discovered an opportunity to put up my very own statue.

2022 was a year of ups and downs. I struggled with finding the time and energy to do the things I wanted to do, as well as with striking the right balance between speaking out about my beliefs but not wanting to be so controversial that I would lose friends and opportunities. Overall this was a year in which I became more active in expressing my views, honoring the historical figures who are so important to me, and trying to make a difference. I began sharing my artwork publicly and selling it at local fairs and festivals. Most importantly, Stonewall Jackson came into existence and came to live in my yard, which I consider to be the most significant accomplishment in my life.

In 2023, I continued to make progress on my journey of healing and finding my place in the world as an authentic person. Stonewall Jackson was by my side, experiencing all the seasons of Massachusetts and celebrating all of the holidays with me. Additionally, Christopher Columbus got his head re-attached to his body and returned to view, although not in the way that would have been ideal. Many people don’t understand why someone with a degree from Harvard would want to work at a grocery store. Many people don’t understand why someone would care so much about statues and be affected so strongly by what happens to them. My way of seeing the world is different from most people’s, and that is OK.

In 2024, I hope to continue expressing myself through drawing and writing, and I hope to incorporate the historical figures that I love into my life as much as possible.

Cheers to 2024!

bookmark_borderJoy amidst darkness

Posted on by Marissa

This holiday season has been one of contradictions. Darkness and light, hope and despair, joy and pain.

A few days before Christmas, the bullies whose goal is to eliminate from the world everything that makes life worth living struck again, inflicting horrific and agonizing pain. Like so many other places and things in the United States, Arlington National Cemetery has been transformed into something sickening, disgusting, and horrific. It has become yet another symbol of me being rejected, excluded, and hurt, yet another reminder of the atrocities that have taken place, yet another trigger of grief and rage so strong that I feel sick to my stomach at the mere mention of its name. Arlington has been transformed by bigotry and intolerance, from a cemetery honoring the dead into a shrine to sameness, compliance, and conformity. Where a cemetery is supposed to be, there is now nothing but a hideous scar in the world. Arlington is yet another place that has been physically transformed, using cranes and work crews at taxpayer expense, to ensure that people like me do not feel welcome there. To ensure that autistic people, rebels, people who think differently, people who are different from the norm in any way, will feel rejected and excluded. The fact that anyone would think that this is a good thing to do is incomprehensible and unimaginable.

And just a couple of days after Christmas, on December 27, the bullies inflicted horrific and agonizing pain yet again, this time in Jacksonville, Florida. At the orders of the bully who was elected mayor, Donna Deegan, a monument honoring the women of the Confederacy was obliterated from a city park, a park which, by the way, had been known as Confederate Park, but of course Deegan ordered that name to be obliterated too. Because God forbid that anyone who is different from the majority in any way be allowed to exist. God forbid that anyone unique or different be honored in any way. Only people like Donna Deegan matter, apparently, and no one else. No one else’s feelings or perspectives matter. Only hers.

Just like the kids who bullied me when I was growing up, the kids who wore makeup, highlighted their hair, spoke using the latest slang, dressed in the latest fashions, listened to whatever music was popular at the time, watched whatever TV shows were considered “cool,” and IM’d with their friends after school instead of reading about and drawing historical figures. They are the only people who matter, apparently, and no one else. No one cares about my feelings or my perspective. No one cares about my right to exist. They only care about themselves and the people who look like them, talk like them, act like them, and think like them. In their eyes, no one else matters.

The atrocity, which cost $187,000, was funded by a grant from an organization called the Jessie Ball duPont Fund (source here). Which means that yes, people actually donated money to inflict horrific and agonizing pain on other people. People actually donated money for the purpose of destroying everything that makes life worth living. The fact that someone would donate money to such a cause is incomprehensible, unimaginable, and utterly sickening.

Statues and monuments were the only thing in our society that actually reflected my perspective and my values, that actually made me feel represented and included. So of course, they had to go. Of course, they had to be destroyed. Of course, it was deemed unacceptable for me to feel even the tiniest bit represented or included. Apparently, it wasn’t enough for the makeup-wearing, IM-ing, mindless conformists to control the media, the economy, pop culture, fashion, technology, etiquette, and social norms. They also had to take away the one thing that actually reflected my values and not theirs, the one thing that was beautiful to me, the one thing that made my life worth living. They had to turn statues and monuments into yet another thing representing their own values, yet another thing to make me feel condemned, rejected, and excluded, yet another cudgel to beat me with.

Society decided that because I am different from the majority, I deserve the death penalty.

That is what the Biden administration’s Department of Defense did at Arlington National Cemetery.

And that is what Donna Deegan did in Jacksonville, Florida.

Anyway, I digress.

Suffice it to say that each time a new atrocity occurs, I am assaulted by pain so horrific and agonizing that it cannot be described in words. Each new atrocity brings with it the pain of all the previous ones, and I am buried beneath the avalanche of atrocities. I am crushed by the weight of the pile, as if I will never be able to dig my way out. I feel as if I’ve been swept away by a tidal wave, lost in a vast sea of atrocities, directionless, as if I will never find my way back to shore.

It is difficult to see any purpose in celebrating the holidays given the vast and ever-growing mountain of atrocities. Putting up a Christmas tree, looking at beautiful lights, playing Christmas music, baking, buying festive foods, all these activities seem insensitive, superficial, tone-deaf. When the tidal wave of atrocities attacks, I hate the entire society. Because this society, as a whole, allowed the atrocities to happen. This society has decided that the destruction of everything that makes my life worth living is somehow an acceptable outcome, that there is no need to stop it, to reverse it, to condemn it, or to do anything about it. And because every person, every organization, and every company are part of the society, every possible way of celebrating the holidays is to some extent “contaminated.” When the pain is at its strongest, and my mood at its darkest, it seems that to celebrate the holidays would be to condone the atrocities.

Yet I decided to try, anyway.

Not because I condone the atrocities. Not because I wish to “move on,” or take my mind off of what happened, or dedicate my time and energy to something else, or find a new thing to be interested in.

But rather because I believe that I am a good person, and that I deserve to have joy in my life. I believe that the historical figures would want me to feel joy. Without joy, it would be impossible to summon the will to keep fighting. Just as the Confederate soldiers found ways to celebrate Christmas as best as they could, despite being exhausted and starving, missing their homes, shivering in their threadbare uniforms, suffering from illnesses and injuries, and traumatized from horrific battles, I celebrated as best as I could.

Of course, I wish to eventually heal from the horrific and agonizing pain that has been inflicted. (No person wants to experience horrific and agonizing pain.) And I believe that over the past couple of years, I have made slow and halting progress in doing so. But the healing does not consist of “moving on,” and it certainly does not consist of forgiving the perpetrators. Rather, healing consists of centering my life around the historical figures, doing whatever I can to honor them and keep them alive, incorporating them into everything that I do, and finding joy in them.

Over the course of the holiday season, my soul vacillated between these two states: being engulfed by horror and despair on the one hand, and experiencing rays of hope, joy, and even excitement on the other.

I tried to spend my holiday season doing things that I truly wanted, as opposed to things that I felt obligated to do. Some of these activities didn’t have anything to do with historical figures, but most did. Historical figures are the thing that I love more than anything else in the world, after all, and so it makes sense that most of the things that bring me joy would include them. So, after this long and rambling introduction, here are a few of the things that I did to celebrate during the holiday season:

Buying and setting up a Christmas tree and decorating it with ornaments honoring some of my favorite historical figures.






Putting up Christmas lights on the front of my house…

And in the back of my house, where Stonewall Jackson lives.

Sending out Christmas cards

Buying some festive foods from Trader Joe’s

Visiting the Christmas tree at the pond near my house…

… and the World War I memorial, which was decorated for Christmas.

Checking out the Christmas lights at Assembly Row, the area where I work…

… and going to an ice sculpture walk, also at Assembly Row.

Looking at Christmas decorations in Boston, paying a visit to Christopher Columbus, and giving him a little gift.

Eating Chinese food

Visiting a house with amazing Christmas lights

Making cinnamon bun pancakes

Making photo calendars to give as Christmas gifts (including, of course, a couple of my favorite statues)

Asking for toy soldiers as Christmas gifts…

… and receiving several other gifts as well, such as Confederate coffee, a Christopher Columbus teacup, and a necklace with a locket containing pictures of historical figures inside!

Finally, I spent Christmas night sitting on my couch, writing while watching a football game. The lights of my Christmas tree, with historical figure ornaments hanging from its branches, twinkled softly in the background, and the calming pine scent filled the living room. Although sports are something that can go either way for me regarding being “contaminated” by the statue genocide, I really enjoyed watching the game, particularly the interviews and the festive montages that played during it. Spending Christmas night with only my historical figures for company might strike some people as sad or pathetic, but for me, it brought a sense of peace and Christmas spirit that was exactly what I needed.

Here’s to more joy, more peace, and more historical figures in 2024.

bookmark_borderA Christmas gift for Christopher Columbus

Posted on by Marissa

It was December 23, and the North End of Boston was filled with Christmas cheer. Lights twinkled on the trees, and the cafes and restaurants were adorned with wreaths and garlands. 

People hustled and bustled through the narrow streets and lined up outside Modern Pastry and Neptune Oyster in search of goodies for their Christmas feasts. Car horns honked impatiently. Tourists chattered excitedly in various languages and stopped to snap pictures. 

The only person seemingly left out of the festivities was Christopher Columbus. A narrow alley off of bustling Salem Street, deserted except for a few parked cars and an abandoned mattress, led to his home in the parking lot of the Knights of Columbus headquarters. As always, he stood solemnly atop his modest pedestal, isolated behind a tall fence. 

Merry Christmas, Chris. How have you been? Everything is so cheerful out there, with the lights, and the decorations, and everyone buying food and presents. And you are here all by yourself. Nobody seems to care about you out there, but I do. You have no decorations, and no presents, and no family, and no one coming to visit you. But I’m here to visit you. I didn’t forget. 

I stood for a few moments with my friend Chris, separated from him by the fence.

And then I noticed that the gate behind him, on the other side of the parking lot, was open. 

And an idea came into my mind.

Perhaps Chris could receive a gift after all. 

I didn’t know for how much longer the gate would be open, so I had to hurry. I turned back onto Salem Street and, turning my head to the left and to the right, began scanning the storefronts for one that might sell suitable gifts for a marble statue. I remembered passing by a CVS earlier, shortly after getting off of the train. So, battling through the crowds, I retraced my steps. Once inside the cramped drug store, I found myself surrounded by an overwhelming assortment of candy, stockings, toys, and holiday decorations. What would Chrisopher Columbus like? I asked myself as shoppers flowed around me, checking out the merchandise, and the automatic doors noisily clanged open and closed. A statue cannot eat, so candy was out. The toys all seemed too juvenile and silly for a great admiral. I noticed a table filled with bouquets of flowers, which were beautiful but very expensive, and likely too big to rest securely atop Chris’s small pedestal. And then I noticed that next to the flowers were some small plants, with beautiful white flowers, that cost only $7. 

The perfect gift for Chris!

I paid for a plant and, praying that the gate hadn’t closed, carried it carefully through the busy streets. 

To my tremendous relief, the gate was open, allowing me to stroll into the parking lot and present the admiral with his gift. A sign sternly warned me that trespassing is forbidden and that violators will be prosecuted, but I ignored it, figuring that no one would mind, because after all, I was there to give the statue a gift, not to harm him. I gently placed the little plant between his marble feet. 

Merry Christmas, my friend. I brought you a gift after all. I hope you like it. 

I took a few photos of him with his gift, patted his foot, and bid him farewell. 

See you later, Chris. It’s been wonderful to see you, as always. Until next time…

bookmark_borderA poem (of sorts)

Posted on by Marissa

Crickets chirp quietly

And leaves waft down from the trees.

Branches cast shadows

Through the moonlight that bathes the yard.

The serene oasis

Stands in sharp contrast

With the atrocity that took place earlier

Somewhere far away

Yet somehow close at the same time.

My statue waits for me,

His bronze skin glinting in the soft light.

Dead leaves crunch under my feet

As I go to tell him what has befallen his comrade

But there is no need;

He already knows.

“I don’t have to tell you, do I, Stonewall? You can feel it. You know what happened. Your heart is sad, and mine is, too. We will grieve, and mourn, together. You are the one thing that makes me feel just a tiny bit better, that makes this pain bearable. Things like this, are why it is so important that you exist. Things like this are why I decided to bring you into the world.”

“Don’t worry, they can’t hurt you here. I own this land, and I will protect you. I will keep you safe.”

“I’ll try to get some sleep tonight, and I hope that you can, too. See you in the morning.”

Excruciating pain

Serves also as a reminder

Of the path that I’ve chosen.

This land is mine,

A world that bigotry, intolerance, and cruelty cannot touch

In which a little statue lives

Safe, protected, beautiful, magnificent

Who wouldn’t have been born otherwise.

10/26/23

bookmark_borderAtrocity

Posted on by Marissa

Disgusting.

Cruel.

Vicious.

Intolerant.

Immoral.

Heartbreaking.

Again and again I’ve tried to find words adequate to describe actions like the ones that took place in Charlottesville today, and again and again the English language comes up short.

Acts like these have taken place so many times over the past three and a half hellish years that I cannot keep track, my brain cannot comprehend the overwhelming magnitude of what has happened.

Yet again, the winning side of the war decides, for some inexplicable reason, to beat up on the losing side.

Yet again, the strong, powerful establishment decides to torment the rebels, the dissenters, the underdogs, all while preposterously claiming that they are somehow disadvantaged and oppressed.

One meager statue representing human diversity, representing dissent, representing being different from the norm, amidst a sea of essentially identical statues all representing mindless conformity, deemed unacceptable in their eyes.

Having relentlessly criticized my clothes, my hair, my shoes, my socks, ridiculed the way that I speak, bullied me because I like different music and movies and books than they do, none of that was enough for them. My special interest – the one thing that makes my life worth living – had to be destroyed too, the public spaces of our country redesigned to ensure that I receive the message that I am hated, that I am unacceptable, that I am sick and deviant, that I am not welcome to exist.

I am deemed unworthy of even a single work of public art making me feel accepted, making me feel included.

Yet again my body, mind, and soul are consumed by agonizing, unbearable pain.

There are no words that can fully convey how much I hate the people – and I use that word loosely – who did this.

They do not hold the moral high ground.

They forfeited any claim to it a long time ago.

They deserve the most severe punishment possible.

But even that would not be enough, because no punishment could possibly be as severe as the punishment that they have inflicted on me – an innocent person who has done nothing wrong – through their actions.

bookmark_borderColumbus Day 2023

Posted on by Marissa

For the past four years, for reasons that I probably don’t need to elaborate on, Columbus Day has been an occasion for turmoil and emotional upheaval. 

The day started out with the promise of more of the same. The never-ending list of atrocities, of heartless attacks against the thing that makes my life worth living, was weighing on me as it so often does. The horrific images and vicious words made it difficult to sleep, as they so often do, and I woke up later than I planned, with my brain feeling foggy and my limbs feeling like lead. I missed the bus, and after walking to the train station, with ice cold wind ripping at my clothing and sunlight shining directly into my eyes, I missed the train and had to wait a long time for the next one. 

Finally, I arrived in Boston with flowers and a note. My plan was to visit Christopher Columbus, say hello, and take a few photos of him. Then, if I couldn’t physically go up to him to leave the flowers and note, which I figured would probably be the case because he is located at the Knights of Columbus building which is enclosed by a fence, I would head to his former location, where a heartbreaking empty pedestal still stands, and leave the flowers and note atop the pedestal. I wasn’t certain whether I even wanted to go through with this plan, because I was running so far behind schedule, and because seeing the empty pedestal and the people happily going about their business around it, is just so painful. 

To my surprise, the gate was open. There were a bunch of men standing around in the parking lot, who I assumed to be members of the Knights of Columbus. So I summoned the courage to walk through it and go up to them. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” I began, “but I’m a big fan of your statue, and I was wondering if I could leave some flowers for him.”

One of the Knights responded in the affirmative and even offered to take my picture with Christopher. 

I left the note and the flowers, and wished them all a happy Columbus Day. 

I am glad that the Knights were so kind and welcoming, and also that I happened to stop by while they were there, giving me an opportunity to leave my gift for Chris. 

Chris means so much to me, that it is strange to think that I had never actually gotten this close to him before, or had my picture taken with him. 

At this moment, my heart is full. 

Happy Columbus Day.

bookmark_borderMoonlight – a poem by me

Posted on by Marissa

Moonlight shining down,

Spotlighting the bronze statue

Who stands calmly at attention.

The tree’s branches

Cast shadows across the peaceful scene.

Crickets peep

And katydids chirp

In a gentle symphony.

From a neighbor’s barbecue,

The smell of smoke wafts through the still air

Devoid of wind though a chill can be felt,

Signaling impending winter.

Cars rumble down the street;

A truck adorned with Christmas lights

Catches my eye.

I look closer and see

The name of a liquor company

And an ad for margaritas.

 

(Poem written by me, 9/27/2023)

bookmark_borderStonewall Jackson’s 1 year anniversary

Posted on by Marissa

Today, I am not going to focus on all of the horrible things that horrible people are doing and saying. That is because today marks one year that Stonewall Jackson has been living with me in Malden. In a world filled with beyond infuriating and beyond awful happenings, Stonewall’s existence is one thing that is 100% beautiful, magnificent, magical, and good.

I hope that you enjoy these photos of Stonewall over the past year as much as I enjoyed gathering them.

May 21, 2023
Me and Stonewall, May 29, 2023
Me and Stonewall, May 29, 2023
Me and Stonewall, May 29, 2023
February 23, 2023
February 24, 2023
May 9, 2023
September 24, 2022
October 24, 2022
December 12, 2022

bookmark_borderChristopher Columbus update

Posted on by Marissa

Another visit to Christopher Columbus…

I weaved my way through the streets of the North End, both too hot and too cold at the same time. In front of the Old North Church, a gaggle of tourists waited in line for tickets. A street sweeper came rumbling down the street. From somewhere nearby, the hammering and banging of some sort of construction project rang out. I was approaching Chris’s home from a different angle than I had before, so I had to look closely at the street signs and storefronts to figure out which way to go. Dodging cars, delivery trucks, a US Foods employee maneuvering a two-wheeler stacked with boxes, and several people pushing carts of books down the sidewalk, I knew that I was getting close. And it was about time, too. I had stopped at Revere Beach before going to Boston, and passed through the park, now haunted, where his pitiful empty pedestal still stands, surrounded by people walking to and fro and enjoying their day, oblivious to its significance. Plus, both the orange and blue lines were operating under speed restrictions, meaning that for the majority of my journey, the train crawled painfully along at a snail’s pace.

The hot sun was beating down, punctuated by biting cold wind. This, combined with noise of various sorts, people walking every which way, and the mental overload of having to concentrate simultaneously on avoiding bumping into said people and figuring out which direction to go, almost made me regret making the trip. I felt irritated and annoyed, my brain overloaded.

But then I saw Chris.

Watching over the parking lot from his new pedestal, there he was. 

I noticed a couple of changes: he had finally lost the plastic wrap that had been clinging to his torso, and the asphalt expanse around him was divided into parking spaces, complete with pristine new white lines and numbers.

Another change: unlike during my earlier visit, I was not able to be alone with Chris. Just as I got there, an elderly gentleman drove up to the gate, got out of his car to open it, and drove into the parking lot before closing and locking the gate again. Presumably he was one of the residents of the building, which houses both the headquarters of the Knights of Columbus Ausonia Council, as well as apartments for low-income seniors. 

Hello, Chris. I’ve braved a lot of things in order to come see you. The train was ridiculously slow, and people are walking in all different directions, and honking their horns, and blocking my way, and driving down the street just as I’m about to cross it, and hammering and banging, and squealing and laughing, and talking really loud on their cell phones, and just overall driving me crazy. It is hot and cold at the same time, and my feet are starting to hurt. But you make it all worthwhile. 

I felt self-conscious in front of the old man, figuring he would think me a weirdo for standing there staring at a statue. It was his home, after all, and not mine. I didn’t feel free to spend as much time with Chris as I wanted to. So I stood at the fence for a few moments, and then bid him farewell. I left feeling unsettled, my mind swirling with mixed emotions about the fact that the man I love, the marble figure who holds such profound significance, is essentially owned by a bunch of old people.

Bye, Chris. Sorry this is such a short visit. But I’ll be back.

8/1/2023