An Afternoon at The Museum

During the first few days of any transition, I always like to remind myself where I am. It helps me feel less out of control.

It also requires me to re-immerse myself in my physical spaces — my favorite cafes, museums, anything that gives me something to hold onto.

After a visit to the National Portrait Gallery yesterday, I was struck by envy — not at the wide array of artistic talent on display — but of the families telling tales of their past.

I watched as one grandfather pointed to photos of various colonizers on the wall and explained to his grandson, something. I wonder what he was saying. And I wonder what my parents would have said if there was a place with portraits and paintings that shared the history of my people. The ethics of it all didn’t really matter in that space. What mattered was that space was given at all.

Why do I always need this sort of physical space to feel grounded in myself and grounded in my own reality? Maybe it gives me something to hold onto or allows me to share space with other human beings.

Most days, which now normalize the neck craned down, away from the gaze of other human eyes, we see most of the world inside a screen. And we witness much of the world, and all its atrocities, alone. Our algorithms begin to pander to our deepest desires — showing us whatever it is we crave.