The Political Imagination

"I think your imagination may be getting the best of you."

As my canthi rose, she said this to me calmly. "There isn't a great conspiracy to keep certain people down; people get what they work for." I knew she was wrong, but I didn't understand why. I had a hunch that the world wasn't as meritocratic as people claimed, but I couldn't prove it. I had tried to explain to her the disparity in treatment that I had witnessed between the "haves" and the "have-nots" at our school and how I suspected this dynamic carried over into the "real" world, but she shut me down.

She was a student government advisor and one of my high school's guidance counselors. She also taught aerobics and health classes at the same time. She is white, middle-aged, and upper-middle-class.

I didn't know at the time, but her positionality would make her the last person a child should speak to about wealth disparity and unequal treatment of Others, let alone about futures, health, or bodies.

She showed me how biased and prejudiced the world can be through her actions and ignorance. She may not have been aware of the presence of structural oppression, but the lack of critical thought in her response led me to believe there was something more going on.

I knew that shortly after Mike Tucson's death. Again, this teacher would reassure me that people can be swindled and that the world is frequently unfair. Mike Tucson was a quiet boy in our school. He was gay, black, and a tiny bit goth. I performed in choir and had a few classes with him, but I didn't know him well. He had a separate friend group from me, although I was mutual friends with some of his buddies. We were aware that the other existed, but we had no idea much about each other. I had no idea why he would commit such a tragic act until I heard that he had killed himself. I was perplexed, sad, and sorry that I didn't know him better. I felt even worse when I learned that he committed suicide because he came out to his family and was rejected. The same temptation against which I had fought for years had been succumbed to by someone who was going through the same thing I was. The only difference was Mike dared to face his fears and tell his family. I had yet to do so.

Though I kept those feelings to myself, I felt as though I had lost a friend in my grief. I had no idea this boy was related to me. No one could know I was gay.

Mike's picture was one of the first to be taken when senior pictures were collected for the yearbook. He must have turned it in weeks before he died. I was part of the senior class student government and organized senior pictures for the yearbook. As I sorted the images before me, I saw Mike's face.

He was nicely framed by glasses, a bright smile, and a plain backdrop of drapes. He had used the school photo as his senior picture, but it didn't matter. Although it wasn't as fancy as some other seniors' shoots, he still appeared warm and inviting to me, which made for a beautiful image. I collected all the photos, stacked them neatly on my desk, with Mike's contribution on top, and walked them to our advisor's room. The senior-class student government's operations were overseen by the aforementioned woman. I had to clear the pictures with her before submitting them to the yearbook for editing.

I showed her Mike's picture first.

"In the past, we've done dedication pages for students who died. Should I talk to the yearbook staff about doing one for him?" I said as I handed her the picture.

She took it from my hand, placing it unceremoniously in her top desk drawer.

"I don't see any need for that. He won't graduate with you. We can take it out." She carelessly quipped, maybe for me, maybe for herself.

I kept thinking of the beautiful, bright, queer Black boy as the drawer closed and remained silent. Before giving the other photos of my peers to her, I remember looking at my hands, which I thought were mostly white and had mostly straight faces. After that day, I wouldn't come to her by choice again. Despite her initial lie, she made her stance and values clear to me and confirmed what I had known but could not articulate: there is a hierarchy, and identity is at the center of it. Racism, homophobia, and classism are a few of the prevailing issues facing our world. The relationship between them and the dynamics of misogyny and misogynoir influence every aspect of our lived experience. The painful and often debilitating ramifications of that influence reverberate through generations and lead us to a place where the Mike Tucsons of the world are not celebrated or made to feel safe and loved. That doesn't mean these social issues must always be present or that they will. It indicates that we must always perform better than our predecessors. My imagination works just fine. Always has been.