between Kafka and the Kremlin

I have been unable to write anything for some time now, and everything I’ve written feels immensely underwhelming when I compare it to some of my earlier work. It’s strange—the more I write, the more I seem to find my style, my voice. Yet, I can’t count the number of times I’ve opened up a Word document, typed a sentence and closed it because nothing felt right.

At some point, I realized I was dealing with writer’s block. I had spent so much time writing exclusively for university that the sensation felt almost foreign. So (and because I’ve been practicing being gentler with myself), I decided I wouldn’t force anything that did not feel natural. Instead, I would try to figure out why this creative block was happening.

Long story short: I blame Donald Trump.

Please, bear with me.

I’ve often talked about intersectionality and how those intersections affect my interactions with others, and in turn, how they interact with me. It’s needless to say that I contain multitudes, but sometimes those multitudes clash—my brain struggling to figure out which part of me takes precedence. My essays have mostly revolved around social commentary, literary reflection, or overly-dramatic accounts of what goes on in my life and my deepest thoughts. But there are sides of me that I haven’t explored in writing—until now.

My last essay delved into my on-going quarter-life crisis and something I mentioned there was that being back in an academic setting is being enjoyable and fruitful. For the first time in a long time, I feel as though I have a direction of where I want to go in life, and that’s mostly because I am enjoying what I’m studying—it is so fascinating that I often find myself wondering if I could merge my writing style with my field of study: international relations. Maybe, you’re starting to see where Trump comes in.

Overstimulated, overwhelmed, and over it

The spring semester started not too long ago, and with it came the struggles I face with being on campus as an extremely socially anxious person. Dealing with all that stress and how it physically and emotionally drains me is probably one of the biggest reasons why I have not been able to write anything. The other major culprit is Donald J. Trump.

Let me explain.

I’m not going to sit here and pretend I am smarter than your average Joe—though, these days, that might actually be a fair assumption. But as an international relations student, my perspective on global affairs is much more nuanced than that of your average person. I am literally being trained to understand the what, the how, the why, the who’s of everything from diplomacy to even the economy—gone are the days of blissful ignorance, when I could see the world through rose-colored glasses.

As of writing this, we are 43 days into Trump’s presidency, and already, we are witnessing the shift toward a new world order. As if living through Covid-19 wasn’t enough, I now have to live through yet another historic moment. Great.

But really—day 43, and we’ve already been subjected to a constant bombardment of policy changes and geopolitical chaos that affect not just Americans, but the entire of the world.

-       Reimposing—and subsequently raising—tariffs on the world’s friendliest neighbors (Canada),

-       Withdrawing from the WHO and the Paris Climate Agreement,

-       Resuming the “Remain in Mexico” policy,

-       Attempting to revoke birthright citizenship

-       And I’m not sure if I want to touch on the circus he’s causing in Europe with his half-assed attempts at mediating the Russia-Ukraine war.

So now, tell me: how can I possibly open my little laptop and write about heartbreak, or depression, or about some book that spoke to me—when the world around me is changing at lightning speed?

It feels almost wrong (maybe because I’m a writer and a student of international relations) to write about things that in the grand scheme of it all seem minor and meaningless.

When the planet is burning, when there is an exponential growth of ideologies that spread hate and misinformation is spreading like wildfire; when people are dying senselessly—what is my anxiety compared to that? If I have the tools to speak on these issues in a way that feels accessible to those who might not fully grasp this shift in the world, why should I continue to write about Nabokov and Kafka?

I blame Trump because these thoughts began around the same time he decided to shove his every little move down our throats. Some say it’s “overwhelmption”—a deliberate strategy to exhaust the public with constant chaos—but I won’t get into that today.

The crossroads of passion and responsibility

Now, I find myself at a crossroads and it’s deeply frustrating.

In theory, I can write about whatever I want. But is that putting too much on my plate? My love for literature, art, and my personal experiences have not disappeared and they all still hold value in the face of such significant world events. But how do I balance that with my growing understanding of global affairs?

When I think of writing about world events, it always comes from a place of anger, frustration, empathy, or compassion. Could I ever write something academic that isn’t biased? Could I ever write something political without washing away my voice, turning it into just another think-piece on the internet?

I guess the real question is: how do I write about this and still make it mine?

Maybe I would’ve had time to think more about this if big media and Mr. POTUS himself weren’t on a campaign to overstimulate us with constant news cycles. But the truth of the matter remains: I am stuck, and I don’t know which direction to take next.

And so, this is yet another essay where I have no satisfactory conclusion.

 Maybe that’s how it will be for a while.

I know I am a deeply emotional person and it would be unfair to strip that element from my writing. I just have to figure out how to channel that emotion into my field—without being dismissed as another “angry Black woman.”

But just like in global affairs, sometimes writing means accepting uncertainty.

Maybe I’ll never find the perfect balance. Maybe some days I’ll wake up and choose to write about existentialism, and other days I’ll rant about the inevitable doom we’re collectively spiraling towards.

Maybe some days we’ll talk about incompetent world leaders, and other days you’ll lend me your shoulder to cry on while I rant about a minor inconvenience that made me upset.

But for now, I’m over feeling like I have to choose between the two.

 After all, the world doesn’t work in neat little compartments—and neither do I.