Kumbaya, Comerades

(After the right wing marched in Charlottesville, shouting, “Jew will not replace us.”)

May 1, 2017

Kumbaya is stuck in my head.

This is why I can’t concentrate today. Also, there’s a lunchtime May Day rally in Union Square, and for the second day in a row, the sound of the Resistance is distracting me. I don’t let myself quit and go outside, but I don’t get any work done either.

I should just leave the sign at home. I thought I could carry it without writing about it, but “I’ll just make notes” = writing about it. And that’s good, I want to write about it! But I have a deadline for a revision of my second kids’ book, and I can’t put it off any longer.

Carrying the sign in public means I don’t spend my train rides writing in my notebook. I don’t spend time on line at the grocery store thinking about this project. I “have to” read an hour of news before I leave the house in the morning, and I “have to” think about Trump all day, and I’m filled with dread and a strong inclination to say fuck everything else. Writing books for kids doesn’t feel as urgent as protesting Trump feels.

Also, the instant gratification of protesting is more seductive than the isolated writing process. It reminds me of the early ’00s, when I was trying to do stand-up comedy and be a writer at the same time. Doing a stand-up set was a quick rush with an immediate payoff in applause, whereas being a writer was lonely and tedious and never-ending, with no applause.

With the sign, I get what feels like applause: smiles, thumbs up, a group of firemen saying “Impeach him, already,” as I pass. I also get hecklers, but I enjoy hecklers now. I had a heckler today on Fifth Avenue. I was nodding hello at the two union guys still striking in front of that building — the inflatable rat is gone, but the sawhorses and banner remain — when a guy behind me said, “Trump rules. Trump’s the best.”

The wonderful thing about having been catcalled for most of my life is that I don’t even give a shit what some random guy says to me, and I am not in the least tempted by curiosity or anger to turn around and acknowledge him in any way. I keep going, and he says louder, “Go Trump,” and it’s entirely lackluster and pathetic, like even he doesn’t believe it anymore. He does not displace a single atom in my consciousness.

“Oh, I’ll just take notes.” Woman who wants to know why we haven’t gotten further on the Trump-Russia thing. When I tell her the grad jury’s hearing testimony tomorrow, she looks so happy. Guy eating pint of ice cream in front of subway: “They’re getting away with it, nobody’s doing anything.” Grand jury, I say. Everybody: “Is there a protest? Is there another protest?” He’s coming to town on Thursday, there’s a protest at the Intrepid. Start spreading the news!

In sum: This isn’t the writing I need to be doing, but this is the writing I need to be doing.

(To read Kumbaya, Motherfucker in chronological order, click here.)