resisting

When I was going to work last week the j train wasn’t running, which I learned on the platform—there was an apparent emergency on the bridge. I stood still for five valuable minutes, then ran down and boarded a citibike, rode to the nearest station that would get me to the L, and thus boarded the g. During the hour I was sprinting to work the station bustled with people and I had no idea where to go. Sweat dripped down my neck and I blindly followed signs, sometimes walking in circles that I couldn't afford according to the watch on my wrist. I felt hopeless a thousand times but finally a part of the bustle. I emailed my boss that I would be late and showed up 5 minutes early, feeling like I had passed a test. 

I feel like there's some sort of cohesion of thought around resistance, that if you encounter much of it you're going the wrong way. But this in my opinion is so ridiculous and, like, lazy. Perhaps this is the imprint of my father's blue collar but anything worth something is worth working hard for.

Weeks ago I picked up a pamphlet called “defending the zad,” which was a kind of manifesto written by people and farmers in France defending their land against governmental development. I picked it up because it was free and there’s a swath of land back home that was once a trail miles long to a body of water that’s currently being developed and sold for cheap and I’m nervous about the damage it will do. I've been reading it lately. The writers of the pamphlet have created through their resistance a kind of experimental zone called La zad.

They wrote: No one can pretend that they did not feel the fear and the doubts, the fragility that shuddered through us during those times. But then there's a moment where shared certainty emerges, that if there is the slightest chance, however infinitely small, to be able to influence the situation that we are living through, then we must grab it. That certainty enables us to overcome the sleepless nights, the thick mud, police projectiles and the damp. It's about keeping one's head high and accepting that resistance is always a gamble.

I worked a couple hours and was officially afforded the job. I boarded the 6 and transferred to the m. I sat down next to an older latina lady with a bunch of hydrangeas in her lap. I took out my headphones to say how beautiful they smelled and she offered me one. I resisted accepting but she insisted. The sprig was thick and the bush full and the petals white as a dole of doves. I accepted. We rode together over the bridge and beyond. I thanked her again and got off and decided to walk home instead of taking the bus. I stopped by a store to check the price of bread (five dollars, too much) and the man checking out told me how beautiful my hydrangeas were. He offered me a crepe out of a box wrapped in plastic. I accepted because I was starving and gave him a clipping of my sprig and walked away. I peeled the plastic open and took bites out of the crepe. It dangled in one hand, the hydrangea in another. I felt armed, like no one could touch me on account of other people's kindness. I walked past jazz playing outside of a cafe and little metal tables surrounding it. I thought to myself, this is what I work so hard for: these people together in this city, this shared certainty. This is what I get for passing the test. Like the nuzzle of a baby in the crook of your arm after it's spent all night crying. I realize new york and La zad almost stand at odds, but nevertheless: living in the city is hard, the challenges it poses are sometimes awful and humans living here are always resisting them (I don't know where I'm going to live in august), but I've come to hold the whole thing very very dear. 

I clipped the sprig, filled the empty modelo can that has sat on my dresser for weeks with water, and slipped it through the aluminum. 

It’s wilting now. I will press its pedals.