Paradoxically, I become dispossessed in the telling, and in that dispossession an ethical claim takes hold, since no ‘‘I’’ belongs to itself. From the outset, it comes into being through an address I can neither recall nor recuperate, and when I act, I act in a world whose structure is in large part not of my making—which is not to say that there is no making and no acting that is mine. There surely is. It means only that the ‘‘I,’’ its suffering and acting, telling and showing, take place within a crucible of social relations, variously established and iterable, some of which are irrecoverable, some of which impinge upon, condition, and limit our intelligibility within the present. And when we do act and speak, we not only disclose ourselves but act on the schemes of intelligibility that govern who will be a speaking being, subjecting them to rupture or revision, consolidating their norms, or contesting their hegemony.
No media about the fact that there’s a All Male, African American High school on the southside of chicago who year after year has a 100% graduating senior class who ALL get accepted to 4 year universities/colleges.
they just want to talk about how whether a person’s death on the southside is gang related or not.
This is ridiculously impressive.
Yesterday, my mother’s dog Pipi passed away from kidney failure and I didn’t get to say good bye. I didn’t think it would affect me too much, but I already miss his little face and assertive personality. It is the third pet (animal family member?) that has died in the last three months: first Pinky, a black & white loner cat that had a sudden stroke; Precious, a black Doberman/Rottweiler mix that died slowly of lung cancer, and now Pipi, the tiniest little Yorkshire Terrier I ever did see. Rest in peace to them all. Not sure how I’m going to explain these absences to Ava, other than some platitude that will surely miss the mark.