Where do I fit? What’s my place in all of this?

Those are the questions, aren’t they? I find the answers evasive…just when I think I’m on the cusp of figuring it out the doubt finds me. I generally feel good about myself. Confidence levels remain high. At some point over the last year I’ve managed to free myself from shadow of Melissa’s death. Life ain’t so bad, but the questions still linger.

Some things happened in my political life recently and it’s served to shake all that I once held to be resolute. Admittedly, it’s all the kind of stuff that should have already been clear to me. I’ve begun to think about how we’re doing a lot of it wrong and what’s worse is that I don’t know what way is right. Even if I did, who would listen? I find myself thinking about the times of Eugene Debs, The Black Panther Party, and even Norman Thomas. Would I think that the political work I’m doing mattered more if I were alive during any of those moments in time? I just might. They all worked towards something real. They failed, mostly through no fault of their own, especially in the case of the BPP but it would have been a more satisfying failure if not an equally devastating defeat. Now we think we can either change the Democratic Party or exist in our own little corner yelling at each other. That’s it. To be of my particular political orthodoxy is to admit that I just wasn’t made for these times.

Life, my life specifically, has progressed. I’ve moved forward by leaps and bounds, and yet much remains amiss. Bearing witness to friends and their embrace of the pleasures that all love has to offer has sown doubt down to the very root of my being. I don’t need much. Just for the potential to be there. But maybe that’s asking too much in a time when the romantic ideal could literally just be a right swipe away. Maybe I had my shot and, well, she died. Maybe it’s just a numbers game and I haven’t played the game enough. Maybe the tide is high and I just need to keep holding on. Maybe I just wasn’t made for these times.

Could it be that some of us are just born displaced, meant to be somewhere and some time else? The Replacements referred to us as “the sons of no one, the bastards of young”. Brian Wilson and The Beach Boys suggested that we just weren’t meant for these times. Obviously, I find this relatable. But they could be wrong and so could I.

Maybe we’ve already found where we fit and can’t admit it to ourselves.

Maybe we need to keep looking.

Maybe it will find us.

Any of these can be true. I’ve got the time to find out.