We were supposed to participate in a lake & trail clean up on Saturday but it was cancelled because the lake is 147% full and the trails are flooded.
We went to the yearly symposium for a local non-profit that works for justice and unity among the black community in Austin. The exec. dir. implored all in attendance to use whatever privilege we had to help others who were being oppressed. He stood at the pulpit in a neighborhood church and said the churches needed to start speaking the truth as well. He then identified himself as cis/male and said because of this he needed to help the brothers ‘not like him.’
We were approached after the event by someone interested in creating a stronger DIY community in Austin. They said they were striving to be independent of the identity politics that weighed down the current efforts. They identified themselves as multi-racial and open to supporting all types of artists purely for their art, not their identities. A text between mutual friends we had with them later revealed incorrect pronouns were used to identify them.
I read a small article in our Community Impact newspaper about how Convict Hill got its name. Convicts worked on construction projects in that neighborhood. They were approved to build the capitol dome in order to ‘cut costs.’ I showed the picture accompanying the article of several convicts to my partner, who remarked they all looked like him.
The weather was so nice on Sunday I read outside twice and we both walked around the backyard, which we haven’t really done since we moved in.
It was raining again today. When I got up, I saw an early alert telling me to boil all my water before using it and conserve it as much as possible due to the rapidly depleting reservoir of clean water. In between boiling and pouring, I read the articles describing this administration’s attempts to narrowly define gender. It was the first day of early voting and lines in some places around town were 2 hours long. My friends gleefully posted photos of Beto stickers lining the parking lots, a signal that meant virtually nothing.