A beginning, of a sort
There came a time – around when I turned 30, I think – when kindness jumped to the top of the list of non-negotiable things I was looking for from all my relationships. Love is kind, yes, but even if we do not love someone we can be kind to them, and expect some kindness in return. Blanche Dubois had it right in some ways. I'll be clear: I do not mean the insipid "just be nice" school of fuckery, designed to keep mouths shut and systems unquestioned. But a feeling of proper compassion, a timeout of consideration, a deep knowledge that we are all human and one day we will all be dead, and those of us who will be remembered at all will be remembered in narrow strokes but maybe broad ones too, and my god, it costs so little to be a little bit kind, doesn't it? I love myself more when I am kind. I feel more like myself when I am kind. On the days when I find that it's a struggle to be kind (is this a thing? I think it can be) I try and force a reset. It's not that muddled – I am good at searching my own head for cues: am I hungry? Tired? Horny? Are those things impeding my ability to be kind? Am I being less generous because I am in search of a thing and it has consumed me far more than it should have? Anything's possible. In the last few days, I have read too many critiques and takedowns of, and love letters to Beyonce. Every camp has its sigil, and will not rest until their strong opinion is also the prevailing opinion in all the places the light touches, Simba. To all these complete, infallible, towering examples of humanity, I send congratulations. What a triumph to have so many answers nestled in your hands, heavy with all that surety. "Do you want to be happy or do you want to be right?" is not always the appropriate question. But it is, sometimes. Also good: "Am I doing the absolute fucking most here?"