This morning, I received a package. As I’m wondering who it might be from, I see my address written in Livio’s handwriting and as soon as I do, I begin to cry. For the next hour or two I cry like I hadn’t in a while, not even sure why I was crying to begin with. I was not thinking, just feeling. Feeling that I love him a lot, that I miss him, that he is such a big, beautiful and important part of me. So at some point during the while that I closed my eyes and shut everything out in order to let tears and feelings pour out, I began to think about Livio loves me and how damaged he must be himself to have lived his life the way he did and to have done the things he did. Maybe him being “driven” to be the way he is is more than a mere fabrication or even a justification. Out of my deeply buried love for him, I cried, and I felt profoundly humbled, felt profoundly that every person deserves respect and love, no matter what they have done or who they are, or aren’t.
A problem I’m having with anthropology and museums, their shrines. Is no critical eye cast on it as a purely white man’s discipline? Is there anyone out there studying how we study other cultures, or having other cultures study us, or themselves, or others, or whatever as long as it brings in a new perspective?
Funny to see these two fiercely strong parts of me, of my life: one so devotedly intellectual, the other so passionately emotional and personal. They are both part of the same force that motivates me, and thus are equally important.