Ashley has a great post about hope on Feministe right now. I started to type out my response in the comments, but it got long and complicated, so I’m bringing it here. “What gives you hope?” is a great question. I don’t think we ask it often enough. When we fill out surveys and memes, we’re encouraged to think about the things that irritate us or bring us down, our pet peeves and ugly secrets. When we’re moved to give a long response to someone else’s work, we usually do so in order to criticize. And when my cousin texts to meet me for a beer, he writes “let’s get together and bitch,” and he’s only half-way joking.
In light of all that, what DOES give me hope?
Well, first of all, there is comedy.
Second of all, there is drama.
Cats curled up as neatly as pretzels, peonies in bunches, the Dnipro River glimpsed from a plane.
The poetry of Lesya Ukrainka gives me hope, especially when she talks about anguish quieting down for the night.
Hillary Clinton gives me hope when she doesn’t take shit.
Champagne in the grass gives me hope.
My great uncle wrote letters from a war he would never return from, and they give me hope.
The idea that people are at least pissed off about healthcare in the States gives me hope.
The fact that someone once said “we don’t like their sound” about the Beatles gives me hope.
The frescoes at St. Cyril’s give me hope.
I think that’s all the hope I need for tonight, but I could use more tomorrow.