I’m a consumer of news. This is my character flaw. I especially love radio news in the morning of the NPR variety: human interest stories I’m interested in because I’m a human, necessary information on farm subsidies…you know, the material I arm myself with before boarding the N train and commuting to midtown Manhattan to walk down Second Avenue in my athletic shoes and business casual cotton dress just like every other girl.
But something has happened this week that the evening email from Jezebel aptly labeled “Rape Fatigue”: I have grown tired. I have weakened in my resolve to stay abreast of all the currents running through the culture in this very charged time. What I realized when I sat down at my desk to attend to the company receivables this morning is that mine is wider than rape fatigue, mine is injustice fatigue. We’re talking minutiae to mega in size–because everything becomes an obsession when one feels she has so little control.
The four holes that have formed in my duvet cover seemed this morning as wide as river mouths. And so I did not make the bed. The N train stopped between stations on an elevated track so that one entire side of the car leaned toward the ground below, and I caught the eye of every rider simultaneously wondering, what if it just…fell over? It could happen, you know. So much else has. Before I read the Jezebel email, I read another one from our giant corporate temporary office space with the subject line, “Holiday Cleaning Schedule for Labor Day.” Jesus Christ, who cares?
Today would have been Gene Kelly’s 100th birthday. Before I opened Outlook I went to YouTube to find the dream ballet from An American in Paris. I wanted to see feet tread lightly–ever so lightly–across the sound stage floor. I wanted to see those same feet kick to the wings the residue of Akin, South Africa, and Billy Baldwin on Piers Morgan talking about super PACs as if he is some sort of authority on the subject. Goodbye, injustice residue. You are ephemera. You just don’t know it yet.