Mayday Weekend

Ten years of austerity. Four years of Brexit. The sale of our data to those who have mastered the art of social manipulation by practising old fashioned colonialism. But online. They successfully weaponised rage. We are exhausted.

People have begun to protest the lockdown. They use signs that say ‘Our Body. Our Choice’ Co-opted from pro-choice campaigns. I am outraged. I lose every argument I have in my head with those protesters.

The virus pushes back the curtain and reveals what we know is true. And still I am afraid the desire for change will crushed out by fatigue. The spark of hope extinguished by the longing for the security of what was familiar. Even if the secure familiar thing hurt you everyday.

The margin was where I used to draw pictures, write notes, have ideas that did not belong on the pages otherwise. They were the most exciting places in the workbook. But the scratches fought for space. And inside every margin, more lines are drawn and more things the textbook says don’t belong on the page are crushed behind them. Fighting for life. For many every day was already an exercise in survival.

A rich white man wants to sue the government because of the lockdown. He owns an airline. He says that the ‘lock-up’ (as it is beginning to be known in the internet underground) is killing more people than the virus. He cites domestic abuse (epidemic before Covid-19) mental illness (access to resources were already defunded to the point of collapse before Covid-19) cancer and other illnesses not being treated because of the virus (Conservative Austerity hollowed out the NHS until it was barely functioning before Covid-19). The rich white man was not an advocate for these things (before Covid-19)

A truth.

I drew a hopeful image because I choked on all my hopeful words.