The best moment of my week was screaming fuck yes!!!!!!!!! while sprinting at full speed across the middle of Cortelyou Avenue in Brooklyn, arms wide, hands open, reaching towards my friend Abby who, a half block away, mirrored my posture, flashed her million-dollar smile, and started running towards me as fast as she could the second she heard my voice. When I got close enough I jumped, leapt onto her, wrapped myself around her body and suddenly we were happy, we were together, we were sharing the weight of life, we were spreading the burden across two people instead of one. We traded stories for half an hour on the street corner with her friend and my husband till it was time to walk home, and on the way home stopped in a bodega, where Abby bought giant Reese’s Cups and tucked them into our palms like gold.
Earlier that day I met my friend Ellen’s new baby, which was a special meeting, one of the most important I have had, my own two brothers aside. I marveled at her squirmy hands and tiny curls. I bounced her on my leg. She watched Herbie move with inquisitive eyes; she reached for his beard and he sniffed her hand. Two gentle creatures. Ellen and I slipped back into step together, two sisters, side by side, like we were never apart, dropped into conversation like always, one long, ongoing conversation we have spread across twenty years.
That morning, my husband received a phone call at a Wawa in New Jersey. It was one of those calls that was going to be good news or bad. No in between. He took the call in the car while Herbie and I paced around the parking lot. We learned that what I thought was Jersey was actually Delaware. We watched piles of cigarettes, potato chips, and jewel-colored sodas make their way to people’s cars. The call took forever. When John gave the thumbs up, we trotted in circles, skipping, jumping, squealing with delight in a world full of sorrow.
Our day was for connection. Shared affection sprung to life. Full steam ahead. Full-throttled. The kind of connection that makes life make sense. Stretches joy across distress. Creates meaning in dark corners.
It rebels against the news of the week.
The news of the week, each week, more death. Pandemic, war, guns, climate collapse. This time, the news shocks even those who are numb. It turns stomachs and strikes fear. Again, we go on, trying to manage our own lives while processing death and destruction in this country.
Legislation is critical, we know, but we are tired. We wonder if it is possible or if the poison runs too deep. We know we are waiting. Waiting for people to change. Waiting for a new generation to take power. Waiting for the moment we choose to worship life — precious life — over power and profit.
As long as guns keep people tethered to those idols, those intoxicating gods led by dollar signs, we know we are doomed. Doomed to witness needless death. To ask how much is enough. To question if we can go to school, ride the subway, or stop for groceries. If we can do those basic things and survive.
We wait. We wait for hearts and minds to change. We plead for gun laws — no more! weapons of war! We wait. In the meantime, we do what we always do. We watch anguish and fear pulse through our communities. We send money and sign petitions. We brace for the next tragedy. We wait.
Amidst chaos, we live our lives the best way we know how. And if we are lucky, we propel our bodies across time and space into the arms of a friend. We stay there a second longer than usual. We squeeze a new baby. We dance.
Love makes sense when nothing else does. Love absorbs our despair and diffuses it.
Between you and me—
As the news pours its stream of horrible things down our throats I found myself asking as I wrote this: Is it foolish to hope? Immediately I knew, it is never foolish to hope.
Those in power benefit when we are numb and overwhelmed and resign our power to despair. Every victory in this country — the Civil Rights movement, legislation supporting the queer community, the freaking Amazon Labor Union on Staten Island — was delivered in the hands of visionary people stubborn enough to hold onto hope.
If you need help with hope at the moment, as many as 90 percent of Americans want background checks for gun sales. The problem, in that sense, is not our neighbors; it is toxic, polarized power structures.
I did not plan to write about death this week. At some point I freed myself from the strange pressure to perform advocacy on social media, and as an extension of that, this newsletter. Where has internet outrage gotten us? Online uproar, tweet threads circulating, arguments in the comments, then back to life as we know it. No, thank you. We have enough takes. I want change.
Often we need an escape; we need to keep living. I do not believe we have to prove ourselves online, reacting to every tragedy. But as always, I simply get quiet and listen for a whisper, and write what I feel called to write. This week, the thing that stood out was the contrast I feel between seeing my friends and reading the news.
That conflict, dear people, the tension inherent in navigating this chapter, is here to stay. May we move through it with grace and lightness. May we hold our hope tightly along the way.
Take care out there.
The audio version of WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is published every Wednesday. Last week’s, which was about illness, and God, but not like you think, is available on Spotify, Apple, Substack, or wherever you listen to podcasts.
WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is written by Lauren Maxwell. Help me grow! Send this to a friend and ask them to subscribe. Share it on Instagram and tag @lauren_only. If you enjoy this work please consider becoming a sponsor, which makes this publication possible. Every gesture of support is appreciated.
Needed this.
What was the news, though?