This Is Us
What We Really Mean When We Call Activists ‘Divisive’
On political discourse, abolition, performative activism, and real love
I have a physical response to the word “divisive.” This twisting sensation in my gut that comes up my throat all acidic. It’s shockingly similar to the feeling one might get after eating too much cheese. Apparently, my stomach has an issue processing both dairy and mistruths. While my brain might need a moment to catch up to the fact that I’m being fed something bad, my body knows better.
I grew up bouncing around the southeastern states, so I’m deeply familiar with the brand of suburban, Southern hospitality that prides itself on the performance of compassion. It prefers its violence honey-coated in the language of God, love, and freedom. Like the time my Baptist grandma sidled up to say she loved me, but I was still probably going to hell — for reasons I didn’t know and wouldn’t ask. I might have laughed it off, but I carried it with me.
I spent a lot of time afterward wondering what that kind of love could be worth. What is love if it can’t save you? Can’t redeem or protect you? A love that leaves you to the wolves isn’t love at all. This seemed obvious. I was certain then that this knowledge would keep me from making my grandmother’s…
