I have a well-thought-out opinion on what I’m about to write. I’m 23, but I have the wisdom and life experience of someone super old. Nothing I’m going to say is based on facts.
Listen to me.
I know so many things, in my heart. In middle school, I had a crush on a boy who was half-Asian. Or maybe he was Colombian. Either way, now I understand race relations in the United States. My mother once had two glasses of wine on our boat, so I have witnessed domestic abuse first-hand. I understand that things are systemic, and now you know that I know the word “systemic.” I almost read The Economist one time. I know so many things. I probably know them all.
But let’s get back to the topic at hand. It’s very close to me. It happened to my sister’s friend’s cousin, so I know what it’s like to feel the effects of it ripple through society. What is it, you ask? I don’t think I need to mention it. If you were paying attention, you’d know.
I watched a documentary about it while listening to a podcast about it and performing an interpretive dance referencing it. It was emotional.
What’s important is that we can’t really do anything about it. No one knows what to do about it. I don’t know what to do about it, and neither do you. It’s important to talk about it, even though I’m not going to read or attempt to learn about it in any capacity. It’s important I completely ignore the people who work every day to make a tangible difference in this particular area. What’s most important is for me to talk about it based on my wanting to talk about it.
I have no solutions. I don’t even have any questions. But I want you to know that I know how to type.
I know how to type.