A Piece of the Pie, aka tu similar
I’m in quicksand. I’m forlorn, exhausted, and scrambling
This reminds me of when I was a kid, there were a few times growing up when I’d get a bloody nose in school, as soon as I saw blood droplets on the table, I’d plug my nose and tilt my head back, and urgently squeak out a, “can someone help?”
When no one came flying in with a tissue or an “are you okay”, I’d look around, confused. Why wasn’t anyone helping? I still remember the shame I felt when no one moved, but instead turned to stare at me like I was trouble. Trouble, or broken, or grimy and foul because of where I came from. I was already an outsider, a meek kid from a big family, a suspicious clan, I’d come to learn, that’s how we were seen, although I had no idea of that back then, all I knew for certain were the emotions I felt, I was always quiet and depressed, stony-faced when I had to be, although I’m sure my eyes told a different story.
I think of this memory as I struggle to climb out of this pit that I’m in, a pit that feels, again, like quicksand, deadly and slow, passing yet urgent. Typing this, I’m reminded of a woman I lived with in my twenties. She, Michelle, often spoke about urgency, how vital it is to undertake, especially when running a classroom. We were both teachers in New England, operating in two different systems, methods, spheres. Michelle worked full-time in a high school, while I split my time differently. I taught part-time in adult ed and studied part-time in grad school, and juggled a mountain of other responsibilities on the side as well.
“It’s not that much,” I still remember her saying, referencing my workload as she gathered her stuff to part one morning. I still remember falling silent at the breakfast table, stunned. This was her response after I vented about my exhaustion, a topic I was generally reluctant to talk to her about—for a reason. Now, I couldn’t name it then because I was always frozen around her, but the reason was this: our rental was a tightrope.
In the beginning, I never thought to challenge Michelle because she came off as kind, passionate, and determined. She was very vocal about what she’d studied, serious subjects based in morality: God, the nuances of religion, which I admired, and race, that was her most prominent message in our three years together, how white privilege exists and, in essence, keeps people of color down. But her messaging soon felt patronizing, like she was trying to prove something, especially in that first year, and I quickly discovered that I couldn’t speak my mind around her as she always had to dominate the conversation. And she always had to be right. It was as if she couldn't see that she was white and I was mixed, and that our polar-opposite backgrounds afforded one of us more privilege over the other. Knowing that she was one of two children from the suburbs of Pennsylvania—which is totally fine—I’d occasionally slip in details from my past to hint at my struggles, as if to say, Hey, I get it. She’d also told me that she had a privileged upbringing, which doesn’t mean she hadn’t suffered, but does indicate that she perhaps didn’t know the pain of certain things firsthand.
“I always think you’re a lot younger than me than you actually are,” she once told me. I’ll never forget the big smile that stretched across her face that day.
I moved in with Michelle in 2015, when I was twenty-three and she was twenty-five. Comments like these were undermining, they served to signal that she thought that she was advanced, or ahead of me in some way. I don’t want to say ‘better’ but that’s ultimately what I felt, Michelle acted very ‘up’ throughout the years. This of course ate at me and prodded me to try to speak up over time so that she’d, again, understand that I wasn’t totally clueless on the subject of privilege.
“My hometown’s 97% white,” I told her. “I’m light skinned but mixed, my Mom, eight siblings and I were minorities, constantly abused by the public… hey, are you listening… outside of school our Polish-American Dad overworked us on the farm… he’d hit my brothers’ shins with rocks if they rebelled… he’d punch us, belt us, call us morons… then tortured our mom, who’s from Guyana… should I go on, I’d think, I’m tired but Michelle you keep talking down to me like I don't know anything… we never had a working shower growing up, I bathed with a cup and a 5-gallon pail until I was eighteen… and yeah, I went to college, I know I’m lucky, even though you keep shitting on higher ed and the ‘ivory tower’, because they aren’t boots-on-the-ground like you, there are exceptional people in academia you know, who are not in fact detached from the real world like you keep saying… and then there was Shane, the baby of our family, innocent, disabled, helpless, he’d constantly have seizures and smash his chin on the kitchen table, there was always so much blood growing up, so much re-suturing, the poor kid was in Hell… but yeah, what do I know, I'm passive, right…”
I knew being direct with Michelle would be met with fury, so I tried slipping in anecdotes from my past to help grow her awareness. I hoped that she’d in turn reflect on her relative privilege and treat me better. Our situation unfortunately didn’t improve, though.
To my anecdotes, Michelle would listen, she'd tilt her head to the side and nod, say the right things and yet… something always felt off. I couldn't put my finger on it but I intuitively knew not to let my guard down around her… but then I'd repeatedly get thrown for a loop because along with her preaching about race theory, which she did have a lot of textbook knowledge of—she’d rightfully critique voluntourism and white saviorism—she’d also speak confidently about knowing her place. She spoke so confidently that for a while, I didn’t question her, couldn’t question her, even if her affirmations did sometimes rub me the wrong way.
“I'm a good listener,” she'd say about herself. “I know when to shut up and listen.” And then, at a game night we’d hosted, a guest, upon finding out Michelle was a Spanish teacher, asked if she was Latina, to which Michelle did modestly reply, “No, I’m gringa, gringa, gringa.” But even the use of gringa felt signaly, like how she’d regularly sprinkle Spanish into her everyday speech. Now, there’s nothing wrong with loving a culture and practicing a language, but for a white woman to constantly interject in Spanish, in settings where no one spoke Spanish, felt pretty virtue-signaly to me.
Mujer; deja me ver; ¡Epaaa!, it was constant.
I felt compelled to write about Michelle this week because it is my hope that she still believes in urgency and anti-racism. After three years living together, Michelle moved away for grad school and for five years that followed, we loosely kept in touch via phone and text, until I put a boundary up in 2023 because the energy, even from afar, felt unhealthy for me.
She didn’t want to lose the friendship but I was not ready to unpack my reasons for leaving, there was so much going on in my life at the time, between my family scheming and my roommates scheming—Hi Linda, Hi Alicia—wicked intentions from all sides all because I wanted to write a book and speak up against foul, egregious abuse.
Michelle and I had a falling out but I still wonder if she’d put that wound aside to be urgent, and fight the fight she's been talking about since 2015. Last month, I reconnected with her. I told her on Signal that I was experiencing worms under my skin, in my hand, legs, and brain. She left me on read, despite saying days earlier that she would “help however [she could].” After no response, I followed up again three days later, clearly scared and embattled. I told her “my brain grows hot, squirms, feels like it’s gonna explode” when I eat certain foods, to which she did reply three days later, with a pat-on-the-head response reminiscent of my younger sister Serena.
“I am so sorry. That is so frustrating. What have you ruled out? And were any of these 4 doctors specialists?”
“That sounds really painful. What insurance do you have?”
To which I responded with more context. This was on February 16th. I also said that I felt like I was dying, which was true. I was frayed, tired, desperate, and seeking an urgent ally. Advocacy was always her thing, after all. And that’s why I reached out to her specifically.
Today is March 17th, 2026. I have still yet to hear from Michelle.
On Survival
Edited, re-posted from February 4th.
Alright, let’s talk about Nancy Guthrie, mother of TODAY show cohost Savannah Guthrie. I’m choosing to analyze this case because it is emblematic of a larger problem at scale: the withholding of information, namely physical and digital evidence in unsolved mysteries/missing persons cases. Yesterday, February 3rd, the TODAY show stressed the importance of the “digital aspect” of this case and yet we see no urgency in the retrieval of, for example, (non-manipulated) street surveillance or ring/nest cam footage (the second of which has apparently been destroyed and removed from the remote property.) Yes, this delay can be attributed to the tech companies’ business style but… let’s be real, we’re in 2026 and not relying on the Pony Express or snail-mail. Quick turnaround is possible, but apparently there’s a ransom note, which further complicates things.
The media is saturated with ‘updates’ on this case, some of which are helpful, but many of which are not. A lot of these updates are redundant, flighty, avoidant, and serving to distract. Of course, I wish for Nancy Guthrie to be returned safer home. At the same time, I have the right to be critical of the investigations surrounding this case. The seedy withholding of information is, again, emblematic of a specific kind of disease that is crippling our nation. The media is flooded with news of this one missing person from a very famous family–while other people’s problems–the crises of everyday Americans–are hidden in plain sight, despite our cries for help.
The suspicious air around this case is plaguing our screens, while Epstein survivors fight for their autonomy and dignity; thousands of Americans fight for basics like food, shelter, and healthcare; and I deal with a plant of a stranger who ambushes me outside of a bathroom in a local library because I didn’t wear a mask. Maybe, just maybe, I am not perfectly on my game all the time because I, too, am traumatized beyond belief.
Let’s wrap this up. I’m struggling, and am seeing like-minded people in a similar state of war. I’m not writing this post for clout, or to feed my ego. I’m writing this out of necessity–survival. I know how it feels to come from very little. I know what working multiple jobs at once, for years on end, feels like. I know the risks that come with advocating for raises–but I also know the rewards that can spring forward from such efforts. And finally, I know how it feels for your earnings and reputation to be severely bruised. (Thanks, Mom.) It’s agonizing. The power struggle is real and unfair but still, I remain undaunted because, well, I have to be. I can’t relive old patterns from the past, like seeing ‘friends’ that play nice-nice to your face only to undercut and sabotage you when you’re not looking. If you too have been through excruciating things, then you know what I’m talking about. You reach a point in life where the suffering becomes so unreal, so unbearable, that staggering forward to heal—surrendering—becomes the only viable option. There’s running too, that’s another option, but that only leads to prolonged suffering… and trust me, when you’re at your limit, you’re at your limit; you reach a point of not being able to endure any more. I’ve done my share of running, of overcompensating, literally, like fifty miles a week in college until I lost my period because I had to have something to control. In this case, it was my weight. I pursued running with rigor, just like my sister at Brown, because nothing else seemed to work in those first two years. I didn’t fit in socially and I struggled to pass some classes, which only seemed to confirm that I was indeed the dumb one of my siblings. Pardon the language but that’s how I felt.
As I retrace some of my steps here in Ithaca, now a dozen years later, I’m grateful to no longer be haunted by that demon, although a bigger spirit now looms in its place.
But I seem to have swerved from the main point of this write-up so allow me to return.
My point, to circle back to the case of Nancy Guthrie, is this: I’m appalled by news that serves to distract, divert, and clone. On the topic of surveillance, I’ve had two FOIL requests denied (one in Cambridge, MA, for an attempted break-in at an AirBnb, and another in Ithaca, NY, for a killing I was partial witness to.) In brief, how do we ensure that the law is upheld, and that surveillance is secured upon request? Things need to change; the system is caving in on people more than ever. And if you aren’t yet affected, that speaks to your privilege, with all due respect.
Safety is paramount, or should be. To cow is not the answer. We need teamwork–and bravery–y’all. Please reach out if you can be of support.
Sincerely,
Lena
