“And guess what? He’s not a fascist!” my friend exclaimed.
We spent Branford Cheese Night chatting away, about everything and nothing, our conversation sprinkled with suggestions of potential eligible bachelors. I nodded all too eagerly as if this was the best news I had heard all week. And, frankly, it might have been.
“Wow,” I said, feigning admiration. “A true renaissance man.”
I am embarrassed that a part of me actually feels the delight I so effectively dramatize. It is the part of me that instinctively vetoes my friends’ Hinge likes when potential matches have “moderate” proudly inscribed on their profiles. It is the part of me that believes “the personal is political, and the political is personal,” when those in power think it is completely okay to exercise unilateral force against those who look different than they do. Or talk different. Act different. Pray different. Even, love different.
It feels personal in a way that not much else does. I feel it every time I see my cousin carrying her immigration documents with her. Just in case, of course. I feel it when my Muslim best friend brushes past the destruction of mosques as if it is her second nature to conceal her faith. I feel it when my mother tells me to have my guard ridiculously high up when it comes to my social media, lest I be labeled “anti-national” for simply having a difference of opinion. It is an unmatched feeling of helplessness: anger at the powers that force us to live like this and frustration that there is close to nothing we can do to change things. It is as if our right to belong is conditional, revocable at a moment’s notice. Nothing kills attraction faster than the thought of someone justifying, not raging against, these systems.
In a hypothetical universe—far, far away—where governments simply organize our economic lives and overlook the distribution of resources, identity politics may not be persistently leveraged, and majoritarian regimes may not reign supreme, as they do now. Perhaps a political opinion would simply be an opinion. Perhaps, then, it would be unnecessary to regard one’s political leanings as a litmus test for basic decency. It would be possible to separate the personal from the political, to engage in ideological disagreements and intellectual debate without feeling as if one’s existence is up for debate. Maybe the quiet dread of knowing that someone’s apathy—or worse, active beliefs—could render you or your loved ones disposable would not be a familiar feeling.
In an unfortunate, yet sadly expected, turn of twisted events, I find myself grasping onto the mere absence of bigotry as if it were a distinctive virtue. To think that my standards could have atrophied into something so laughably low that “not fascist” feels like a credential worth celebrating.
In this paralyzing condition of unbelievable scarcity—where political opinions that simply center on kindness feel uncommon—a compassionate view of the world and the people that inhabit it is, unfortunately, undeniably sexy. Kindness—real expansive kindness, not the vague, neutered version weaponized by those who insist that civility matters more than justice—comes with immediate appeal.
We live in a time where cruelty is incentivized, where the loudest voices are often those most willing to dehumanize, where indifference masquerades as rationality.
Empathy is alluring. Speaking up for those stripped of the basic privilege of a voice? Utterly enticing. The ability to view others’ humanity as fully as one’s own? Devastatingly attractive.
Perhaps, then, it isn’t a political stance itself that is sexy, but rather the rare and radical choice to care.
