Bobby London is Dead

I struggle with wondering why I write, and if there is a point to continuing it. I have a desire to share my ideas. I get tired of seeing the same shallow analysis. Each time I write, it’s a battle against myself. Why are my words worth reading? What does it matter anyway? Generations of self doubt…I’m not supposed to be writing these things, these very dangerous things.

I get death threats, I’ve been doxxed, assaulted at protests, trapped in kettles, I’ve reported from the “front lines”, but what is the point of being a black martyr if black lives don’t matter? Especially not mine.

It’s hard to know what is ego and what is misogynoir. It’s their misogynoir. It’s my own internalized misogynoir.

It’s all of that.

But ego when you live in self doubt is not a bad thing. Ego when you are trying to participate in spaces that are hostile to you is crucial to your survival. Ego is something I am trying to cultivate, but often I am told to “calm down”.

The movement kills. There’s nothing glorious or glamorous about it. It’s isolating, it’s sad, it’s disappointing, it’s heartbreaking, it’s lonely, it’s frustrating, it’s scary, it’s defeating. The moments when you feel inspired, when you feel invigorated, are few and far between. If you want to be a part of the “resistance,” you better get used to depression and despair. You better learn to love court support, and how to talk to a watch commander. Get used to waking up from nightmares of past police assaults, because those are the feelings that linger. Like the cough you develop from tear gas, it stays with you forever. You don’t join the movement, you are born into it. It is not a path that is chosen, but the path that is necessary for your survival. You can’t quit unless you quit life.

Suicide becomes the most accessible way towards liberation.

So please forgive me if I have no more hope to share, if I’m tired of talking about tactics, if I just quietly watch next time co-optation takes place. I’m tired of trying to stop hierarchy, I’m tired of failing, I’m tired.

I think of when I felt inspired, when I was wide-eyed, when I was naive, when I could meet someone new and not question their intentions. When I didn’t wonder whether every new friend was a cop. When I could do things without worrying that it was entrapment. When I could go to the front of the riot lines, tell the cops fuck you, and be surrounded by people doing the same.

This is my fourth wave, and at this point I’m just washed up. A washed up jaded old rad, who looks at the kids and sees all that they are doing wrong, all the un-deconstructed hierarchy. But maybe that’s my shit, maybe you’re not meant to surpass the first wave, maybe you’re just supposed to fizzle out, you’re not supposed to keep trying or wanting. We’re supposed to die or go to jail, right? We’re supposed to be martyrs, for the sake of others’ inspiration, for the hope that more will follow. But I just want to live life more freely, I just want to feel safe walking the streets, I just want to not worry about having health care or a roof over my head. I just want to be. What politics does that fall under? What label does that make me?

I always say my politics is selfish. That’s honest, I try to be honest. I guess that’s why I feel like it’s time to kill Bobby. For me to admit defeat. I gave the last 6 years to this resistance, and what the fuck did it give me?

People always told me my writing wouldn’t be valued until after I was dead. Now we’re about to find out.

Or, maybe I had to come close to death. I had to witness my own funeral to realize I’m not ready to die, at least not yet.

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