The Time is Here—A Sestina Niva Cohen

The online classroom lacks the hubbub of learning, the noise. Where once we chattered, and taught, and sought answers, now, we stay on mute. I know why we’re so far; I want to keep our community safe But how can I feel whole, feel connected to the people I long to protect, when at such a distance? On the bleakest nights, it feels impossible to wait for the “all clear.” I squirm in this purgatory, an agnostic praying to God for things to go back to normal. Then comes the murder of George Floyd, and I begin to see the flaws in “normal.” All the shallow concerns, the meaningless qualms, the pointless noise Inside my head gives way to reality; once abstract injustice becomes crystal clear And I’m ashamed because, however loud the victims yelled before, to my ears, they were mute. But now I hear them. Their voices echo in my whirring mind and that distance Which was once so vast, closes. I’m one of the lucky ones. Not everyone’s so safe. Then comes the outrage. So many politicians, for so many years, playing it safe. The lies and excuses and “business as usual” and “can’t change the status quo” and “it’s normal.” From my fortunate perch, I’m in it, but outside of it, immersed but at a distance; I’m in awe of these people who persist despite what they endure, who make noise When their whole lives, everyone has told them they are mute. No one can feign oblivion. No one can pretend. The time is here, the message clear. Then comes the violence. On every side imaginable. Cop cars ram into streets, not caring that the way’s not clear; With tear gas and rubber bullets and 17-year olds patrolling with guns, protests aren’t safe; Shopkeepers go to work and the destruction they see leaves them mute. My heart goes out to them. But my classmates denounce the protests as abnormal, Uncalled for. Their black squares and “look how much I care”s are just noise. They can condemn without compassion, reject with reason and not empathy, because of their distance. Then come the fires. The West Coast is burning. Climate change is not years in the distance But right around the corner. This one’s bad. Even here, the sky’s not clear Because of an inferno two thousand miles away. Why isn’t there as much noise? A colossal threat is knocking on our doors and we have the audacity to feel safe. Human hubris. “It’s not our fault.” “This phenomenon is natural and normal.” I don’t curse much but that’s bullshit. We must channel the Lorax. Earth needs our help. She’s mute. Despite everything, because of everything, the government turns a deaf ear to the young, yearning to mute Us as our teachers have to do on Zoom because they didn’t prepare against a virus that was once distant. Because they’re starting to realize that they’re the only ones who want “back to normal.” The only adversity he fights is that which harms people like him. God forbid they lose their leg up, their clear Unobstructed path to undeserved success. With his white collar and the big bucks in his pocket, he’s safe, While in the crisis he’s created, people suffer and die and moan and cry. To him, to them, it’s just background noise. I’m in class, half-listening, doodling, my mic’s on mute. Outside, the streets are calm again. Again, the sky is clear. Young folk picnic, none of them sick, keeping careful distance. They’re doing what they ought to make Philly safe. But I know, sitting here on the tenth floor, that the idealized, idolized, idea of normal Has vanished. I feel it in my bones that on Election Day, those picnickers will make some noise.

— Niva Cohen