I sometimes encounter people who tell me they’re not political. I’ve tried to grapple with what that means – maybe something along the lines of not voting in elections or not wanting to listen to all the political rhetoric?
My father never had a choice about whether to be political or not. I’m coloured with these secondhand experiences: theories of power coupled with a human consciousness. Residing in this sphere of thought, I think to be apolitical would be an offence to my father and, ultimately, my history. I often reflect on this narrative, which I’ve heard throughout my youth. It’s one I’ve accepted, but never completely comprehended.
Yet sometimes I miraculously stumble upon a place that captures a semblance of this struggle, of this idealist conviction. I’m convinced that the nature of our surroundings can’t possibly be removed from the political.