Collisions

Last week, on a blazing hot day, I ducked out of work early to head down to Foley Square for the Good Trouble protest. I had written on FB that I would be there if I could get away from clients - 5pm on a workday is tough since we have client hours until 6pm. Ben replied that I should bring the clients and continue counseling on the way, and that's literally what happened. Only one client decided to come along, a trans guy in his 20s. On the way, we decided to stop for beverages, and he picked a slurpee flavored 7-11 brand drink, with a brightly colored label clearly designed to appeal to kids, It was 2 for 1, so he grabbed a second one, and I got a seltzer, and being the grown up, I paid for both. I felt even more parental when he handed me his extra drink to stow in my bag (and then later on handed me the empty bottle since there wasn't a nearby trash can). We made our way through the gathering activists, saying hi to people I knew all along the way. "This is really an older crowd," said the client, taking in all the grey hair. We found Rise and Resist, I picked up a sign, and we added ourselves to the group standing by the banner. As usual, lots of people with cameras kept being drawn to RAR's intense visuals, and the client kept getting anxious about being in pictures in this age of digital security. "They know who I am," I said to him, explaining why I don't worry about that. As we stood waiting to mmarch, the client started talking to me just like we were in the office, telling me about losing time and dissociation. I felt a little like my brain was split in half, with half focused on the client and the other half focused on the protest. It was a relief when it was time to march. I was holding a sign with the name and image of a man who died in ICE custody. As we marched, I started seeing the signs all around me, names and pictures of people who had died or disappeared in ICE custody. By the time we made the turn onto Chambers st I was thinking about my own migrant clients, about the danger of them being snatched up, and what would happen to them as queer people in ICE custody. I kept my face turned toward the sidewalk so the people around me couldn't see my tears. Just then, Ellen, who is an activist photographer, came along and saw me crying. I explained to her about my clients, especially K, a gay man with a deportation order and how hard it is to be the person who is supposed to help, when there is no way to help. I can refer clients to lawyers, but even lawyers are limited when the law is not being followed.

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