Rushed Undeveloped Post

In preparation for seeing my blogger pals soon, I decided to quickly post something:

Yesterday I paid a visit to the African American Clinic for a free medical examination, which started with a blood test. The nurse found a vein and put the needle in, but, at first, nothing happened. So she wiggled the needle around until the blood finally started to flow and filled the vial. At one point, I said to the nurse that I was feeling dizzy. I learned later that what I had actually said was that I feel “dizzzzzzzz”. After that, I went to my happy place. I don’t remember what I was dreaming but I remember not wanting to be woken. When I did come back, I wasn’t sure where I was. I started to think I had had some kind of accident and was now on the verge of death, in a hospital as a team of medics were trying to save me. Then my awareness returned. I was given some orange juice and a sandwich to bring my blood sugar back up.

Two other times in my life, I have passed out (been knocked out a few more), once when I was swimming and got caught between my dad’s legs trying to come up for air and the other in a Washington DC office where I interned and I overheard a conversation about accidental asphyxiation. What I remember from both incidents is the idea, which I obtained after the events, that death would not be as painful as I had imagined.

In reference to my last post, I’ve been wondering about how hierarchy both creates identity and makes the realization of human needs impossible. One thing I don’t like to admit is that part of what appeals to me about my travels to Central America is the sense of privilege I feel as an American. I’ve learned that being ideologically opposed to privilege doesn’t prevent me from enjoying it. And what is sometimes even more enjoyable than the sense of privilege is the sense of self-righteousness I feel when I try to resist being treated preferentially, when I refuse the privilege that is offered me. That, too, is another privilege—the privilege of being charitable, of being capable of giving charity.

But it isn’t real charity I’m participating in. Rather, it’s a purchase. In exchange for feeling self-righteous, for having a good conscious, I give someone lower on the social hierarchy my money or my time or my respect … something. The recipient has no reason to respect my generosity, because it isn’t real generosity. Even if I wanted to be truly generous, I couldn’t. The system we live in doesn’t allow it.

I remember when I worked at the County Jail. I had numerous volunteers helping me out and I was a little surprised that the inmates didn’t seem very thankful for the volunteers' efforts. I knew I was grateful, so…. But now I’m starting to get it. You can’t be charitable nor can you be honestly thankful for the pseudo-charity you receive in the world as we’ve created it. Honest charity and thankfulness can only exist as acts of absolute uncompromise and revolt.