I remember it was spring. I remember because it was particularly hot for a spring in Berlin, and I had made it a habit to blame my profuse sweating on the weather. But the truth was: there was a deep rage boiling inside me. And this rage was familiar to my body.
It had been a few weeks since I’d joined this organizing space. And while on the surface, we were gathering for justice, underneath, I could feel the cracks. Misogyny, classism, ableism—quiet but persistent—were being recreated in real time. I kept telling myselves to be patient, to “stay in it,” but my body knew before my mouth did. Looking back, I think the sweat was my first protest.
The space was led by what people call a brilliant man.
A brilliant man is often a man who uses his brilliance to distract from where he comes from—and from what (and who) has made him.
