the f word

Here is another little piece resurrected from the never-finished These Are Our Weapons zine project of ought five, from the days when I was fresh off the boat here and taking care of snotty (in every sense of the term) five year olds for a living. Enjoy.

“So you don’t like the American regime?” Tannus asks me on the subway escalator after class.

“No. Bush is a moron. I can’t believe that so many people voted for him. But maybe that just shows you that a lot of Americans are stupid too.”

“Well what do you believe in?” Tannus is from Iran. Wants to study in California someday. Wants to know everything about America and Americans. “What are your politics?”

I hesitate–how to reduce 22 years of simmering murk into a subway station response?–then plunge. “I don’t like labels. But if you had to call me something, maybe you could call me an anarchist.” I cringe. Another. Meaningless. Label.

“But what’s that? I’ve never heard that word before.”

I look at the floor and open my mouth to respond, but it’s Laura–a classmate from Spain–who answers. “It means she loves freedom.”

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