Posturing tires me. Someone’s need to stake a claim in the social order of the world. Jelly-legged stakes that require constant validation.
I don’t care that you head departments or projects or that reputed people know you and that you yourself are reputed. That phony gesture calculated to give me a sense of the health of your bank account is tripe. Believe me, owning privilege is far worthier than celebrating it.
How about this? Make me laugh. Or better yet — laugh at my jokes. Tell me your story — tell me who you first fell in love with. Or don’t. Ask me about the loves of my life. The transformative power of things are on my mind. Of love. Of art. Of the written word. Of passion. Of dissent. Tell me…what do you think will change the world?
What is not required is this pressing need to give yourself a corner of humanity and ask me for mine so that we can stay in our respective niches. I am not interested in giving you my categories. I didn’t ask for yours. I am not interested in being classified, if I can help it. And today I can.