We heard from the shepherds who cared for them, the stories of their many escapes, their tendency for mischief, and, finally, their last moments. How, on a bright Sunday, the shepherds who loved them so had entered their paddock, pinned them to the ground, and slit their throat. How they bled out in the grass that fed them.

Their names were Half-Gallon and Ralph.

Having spent the majority of my adolescent life in Florida, a place divorced both geographically and culturally from its food sources, the celebration was uncharted territory for me. I have never known the name of an animal I have consumed. I have never seen, or even heard stories of, its mannerisms, its personality. Unlike many Burlington residents, raised in refurbished 19th century farmhouses, apple orchards, and similar alluring and mystical locations, I grew up in a cookie-cutter house in the suburbs, in a row of identical houses, cheaply constructed and in various shades of brown; and later, a string of grey apartment complexes. As such, certain exposures to food systems and ways of living were not revealed to me until what often seems an embarrassingly late age.

When people ask me about my time in Florida — or, rather, I become closely acquainted enough to them that I’m under a social obligation to inform them, at least superficially, of my past, that heavy and obscured suitcase we carry with us from one place to another — I sell them one of several prepackaged stories: the sun-washed, beachside apartment complexes, all late-night drives, orange groves, and midnight swims, or perhaps I lean into the runaway southern girl archetype, vaguely Appalachian in nature, though my hometown is just south of Cocoa Beach.

In reality, it was ugly. Horribly so. Not to say that it was thoroughly horrific; my fonder memories cast a warm slant over the place. But there is a surreal emptiness to it, that of an abandoned shopping mall. Everything is new, brand new, but devoid of any substantial character or community. Outsized billboards flanking residential streets, six-lane roads running through town centers. A freshly painted Tropical Smoothie surrounded by miles of empty parking lot. It is a social desert, disheartening to witness, depressing to reside in.

After four years in Vermont, I now know that the surreal quality of life in Florida can be attributed to the aforementioned severance between the people and the land, and one another. Its ugliness is both aesthetic and spiritual—there is no tenderness, no community. No gratitude, no offerings. At one time, we worshipped the sun for its warmth, praised the plants for their nourishment. We prayed for the animals we sacrificed for food. Now, they, the life they lived and the pain they faced in death, have been reduced to single-use consumables—something we feel entitled to, and something they must face alone.

If the idea of slitting the throat of a lamb sounds gruesome, that is because it is. There is decidedly a beauty when it is done in love, when the animal has been truly cared for, and its sustenance is shared with neighbors and loved ones. This is not new, but it is forgotten. Our sensitivity toward the land and our fellow animals has atrophied; we now find once routine practices blinding.

But our eyes learn to adjust. If we must eat meat and other animal byproducts, let us share in the burden, the work and the grief, of tending to that animal. Let us understand the gravity of taking one’s life. Let us know the cool sharp of the blade, and the stain of blood. And if we must eat, let it be together.

In tenderness,

Teddy

Here, though, is where I think we get it wrong. The very act of feeling something, or feeling it strongly, is not inherently resistant. It is a pre-requisite for resistance.

We are not fighting fascism when we lean into our feelings. We have to lean into our feelings so we can fight fascism. The very notion that it can be otherwise only serves as a barrier to meaningful action. It is not enough to say “But they want us to be miserable! My peace is resistance!” — we all know that fascist and colonial powers are general indifferent to the emotional wellbeing of the people they bomb and exploit. It is only when you take these feelings — the anger, the grief, the hope, the love — and do something with them that they have power. But this is organizing 101, and not what I’m discussing.

Sensitivity has, unfortunately, been mistakenly and ineffectually reclaimed by the left, evident through a series of performative gestures: a meeting about a joke made in last week’s action debrief, arguments over someone’s tone in the mutual aid group chat. Rather than constituting a genuine ethos of care and solidarity amongst one another, this framework has become an obviously, near comically hollow performance of concern, a set of behavioral cues and guidelines meant to mitigate harm and stir a sense of justness or even accomplishment in the group. We feel good when that jerk from the other day is called out. Better if it’s public, and we get to watch. It scratches an itch for justice, one that, as organizers taking on near-impossibly large problems, does not feel relief often.

But this, this self-righteous leap to correct the behavior of our community members, is not sensitivity, though it is framed that way both by those who use it and those who criticize it. It is a misplaced response to our grief and anger towards systemic injustice. Rather than work to unravel the larger injustices that are ultimately responsible —harder work, yes, but a truer form of relief—we attempt to remedy or dull the feeling with what are ultimately superficial gestures. While these gestures are sometimes useful in creating a bubble of consideration and respect, they are too often settled for over real, material action. They contain affect instead of mobilizing it. Some call it progress, or baby steps towards it. I call it liberalism.

Even in self-proclaimed leftist, anarchist, or communist organizing spaces that outwardly reject the platitudes of liberalism, this attitude towards conflict resolution and decision-making runs rampant. They would rather do nothing wrong than do something right, and thus, they are stagnant, purgatoried, neutered.

The crux of the issue I’m circling here is this: we’re thinking too much about ourselves. If I may be blunt (and please know I say this from a place of genuine consideration and love for my fellow organizers and the movement as a whole), I find it selfish and unproductive. To be effective as organizers, we must de-center ourselves and prioritize the wellbeing of our communities on the whole, which sometimes means bearing discomfort.

This, of course, raises an important question: who bears this discomfort? To be clear, there is no room for misogyny, discrimination, arrogance, or belittlement in the fight for liberation. Such behavior must be swiftly and appropriately addressed. My criticism is reserved for minor infractions and disputes, which I feel draws undue energy from our capacity for meaningful organizing.

Below is my unofficial guide to practicing what I am deeming radical sensitivity, a way of practicing empathy and thoughtfulness towards one another in the time of fascism (as always, it remains open to additions and corrections):

1. Give each other the benefit of the doubt.

When your neighbor accidentally takes up a harsh tone with you during a meeting, ask yourself: Do they typically speak like this? Did my words or actions warrant this tone? Did they mention having a hard time during our check-in? Consider letting it slide.

2. Know when to remove yourself.

Not every conflict must involve the group on the whole. Though we may organize by consensus, problem-solving interpersonal disputes can and should remain between the individuals directly affected. Do not insert yourself into conflicts that do not include you.

3. Remember what we’re fighting for. Know when to let go.

Stay sensitive out there.

Love, Theodora