アリソン・ピルのインスタグラム(msalisonpill) - 11月6日 05時15分

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・・・
I walked from the Museum feeling elevated and proud. I crossed Sixth Avenue and as I passed a shop devoted to larger sizes, a teenaged girl and her father laughed at the large women of color who were leaving the store. I walked down to West 49th Street to repair at Sapporo, the old gyoza and ramen place that has been a comfort over the years. You pay cash, sit at the counter, and watch the steam from the woks rise. When I got to Sapporo it was shuttered, along with the other Japanese home cooking place. Parched emotionally and physically, I walked away. I arrived at the subway. It was crowded with marathon folks. The train arrived. The doors opened and a young man pushing his way through with his girlfriend knocked an older man aside and tried to engage him in a fight while the older man’s son, little and sweet, looked on perplexed. I got on the train—packed as always because what does passenger comfort in this city mean anymore. I sat down on the edge of a seat because who relaxes into the ride these days when you could be pushed between the cars, or to the rails, or slashed. I thought of the day, and the subway event, that older man’s humiliation, the shuttered restaurant, the body shamers, and I thought: This isn’t New York in the seventies when the city was collapsing because even then there was creativity: artists rose up and made things, people dressed in fascinating ways and didn’t put money and fame first. What these events reminded me of was London in the nineteen-eighties when Thatcher was in control and that town was mean and grey and more class and thus race driven then it had ever been before. And as I thought all of this I felt what I feel more and more: Get me out of here. Get the ones I love out of here. Just then, sunk in thought and despair and a little fear, I heard someone call my name. It was one of my sweet students, she of the beautiful brown intelligent face, and something like hope was restored to my heart. Please vote.

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