My mother doubts everything I say, but nothing of which I enact. She is doubtful not of me, but what this world may afford me, us. She is the only one of my family who engages with me politically; sometimes I wonder if it is only to extend our calls. Yet, I scrap this thought, for she aptly challenges and questions me. She asks why must I make my life so hard when I have everything at my fingertips.
I say, “Bueno, hay un mundo para ganar” [Well, there is a world to win].
And she sighs, “Y si ellos ya lo han ganado?”. [And if they have already won it?].
I pause, for I know this is the truth.
The turn of the 20th century had marked the defeat of multiple people’s revolutions: from the Mexican Revolution in 1910, the momentous Russian Revolution in 1917, the almost-miraculous Chinese Communist victory in 1949, to the multiple decolonization movements across Africa and Asia after World War II.
Yet, we find ourselves in the same position in the 21st century; in fact, in an even worse position. Yet, there is an irreversible consciousness shift despite the defeat of these revolutionary movements: it is the very thing which ignited them in the first place. The mark of the barbarian cannot be ascribed to us any longer. The wretched declare their wretchedness to be a lie, and the only thing which can be seen as savage is the capitalist state’s treatment of its barbarians. The people recognize their worth as workers, and their children learn the tongue of the emperors to counter their lies. So I turn to my mom and say “entonces lo destruiremos para ganar el mundo que creamos de nuevo” [then we shall destroy it to win the one we create anew].
And there is fear in her eyes, for she knows how serious I am when I make such a statement. She has seen me pour my heart in every endeavor I pursue; she has told me she doesn’t know how/why I do it. I used to tell myself it was vengeance which had propelled me, but this was simply obscuring the love which had underlied my every motivation. And as I become more of a man and shed every ounce of boyhood left, I can sense this love grow outwards, for this is how the new world we dream of will be born.
Love as an active construction; something which is not assumed or passively fallen into; something which is constantly being worked on because of its dynamism; how our world makes it so difficult to allow love to be a craft which we practice given how our time is consumed by those who own capital. To the parents who cannot attend their children’s sporting events; to the students who find it difficult to make time for their friends; to the young professionals whose only interaction with love is at best, lust through a swipe and simple text from friends miles away.
The restructuring of social relations relies not merely along the lines of production, but within the home, the school, and even the plaza. Yet, the 20th century also demonstrated to us that this may entail great violence. Perhaps this is why my mother fears what I say I want. Yet, I cannot be deterred for it is a burning passion in my heart that draws me towards what is to be done; what is to be said; what is to be enacted. For the failure of the 20th century is not pure tragedy: it is sublime.
Revolutionary consciousness is embodied in the flesh, for it is the point through which it arises; the ache of workers’ backs, the straining migraines of finances, the stunted growth of malnutrition, the daze of sleep deprivation, and wails of when those who you love succumb to these afflictions. The flesh holds this all and never leaves us; we turn away from the world for how much it hurts us and wallow alone. But the people’s revolutions of the 20th century reckoned with this all to turn towards the bodies whose flesh had also been tattered; the silent cry had suddenly gained fervor and no longer trembled, but exuded immense rallying power. These ideas of a better world switched from what we dreamed, to what we can do.
I want these ideas to become corporeal again through my embodiment and how I am in-the-world: the world which I and everyone is embedded within. And for these ideas to cross into the corporeal from the abstract, it may entail that I myself may be harmed.
Yet I cannot look away, for the philosophy of neoliberal capitalism has already become embodied in our world; it mangles the bodies of billions everyday and closes our hearts. It afflicts us with mental illnesses and tears off our limbs. It is an abuser which we cannot escape, for we have relinquished our body to it. There must be a commitment to un-alienate ourselves. There must be an attempt to reclaim what our body produces, and how it navigates space and time.
The body is the anchor within this world we find ourselves in; yet, this world takes this term too literally, and holds us tightly given the parameters it has set. The body itself must find a new world to anchor itself in which does not disrupt the extension of ourselves into the world with others. A world which does not subject the body to destitution or decadence; something which counters being unable to focus upon what/who is around us or being so bored of it that we seek to escape through hyperreal, decadent fantasy.
This is what I call the carnal; it is the project I dedicate my life to. For the carnal is when we are at pure bliss; not because stimulus is absent (we are never in a vacuum). Rather, we immerse ourselves within the environment that is constantly giving us what we need through becoming synergistically coupled with it. This is no utopia, for it must arise through intentions.
“Human nature” is nothing but a pseudointellectual dog-whistle which believes we are programmed machines and not dynamic bodies constantly changing, adapting, and acquiring new habits (which define our nature in-the-world). And yet, we placate ourselves through sheer underestimation of our agency when it comes to the creation of our being. There is nothing less tragic than self-sabotage, for a failed execution is still more a lived experience than the passivity which plagues us.
Everything is already at our fingertips; what my mom notices as “hard” is not the action itself, but how the action becomes collective. To enact is the easy part; to unite is rather difficult. Yet it waits for us to act to begin; what the catalyst will be is what I always seek. Yet our bodies shall know when it comes, as our fleshes will meld as the crucible becomes too hot and the only way to persist is metamorphosis.
We must agitate to become hotter; we must agitate to approach freedom.
Caracol Future 