A letter to an imaginary future
Dear readers,
I am writing to you at the start of 2021.
If I were to situate myself in this present moment as an Asian American feminist, I would point out that we are in Black History Month, one year into the COVID-19 pandemic in the U.S., at the start of a Democratic presidency and a second impeachment, and seeing new waves of violence against elders in our communities. Across the ocean, we are seeing protesting farmers being suppressed in India; the people of Myanmar rising up against a military coup attempting to overthrow democracy; the American military and its allies Australia and Japan running drills in Guam in preparation for war with China or Russia. There are uprisings and movements for labor rights, against authoritarianism, to decolonize and demilitarize, to save the environment, and to decriminalize poverty, gender, queerness happening all across the globe. And here we are.
At the start of lockdown in March last year, I told myself I was going to buckle down and publish this collection of writing by our community members as an act of care and to fulfill a promise I had made to myself. It is now one year later, and I am lucky to have survived this pandemic and privileged to have been able to stay safe inside my rented apartment for 11 months without fear of eviction. Like many others in a similar position, I spent a lot of time feeling anxious, depressed, fearful, doomed, alone. And I think that if I’ve learned anything as an American citizen, it’s that tomorrow isn’t a promise. Something true no matter where you are located—especially for Black, Indigenous, queer and trans folks, women, and those living with disabilities and chronic illnesses. But when there is wide-spread negligence and miscommunication in a society where commercial gain is more important than taking care of one another, you’re really faced with that reality. Given this broken reality which seems to be widely accepted as the norm or neutral, we as humans are faced with innumerable choices on how we engage with it.
Can we imagine a future reality where tomorrow is a promise for us all? At the very least, can we imagine a future where we know that we are cared for? A world where we aren’t viewed as disposable. Can we all promise to take care of one another?
If right now tomorrow isn’t promised, should I anchor myself to the present? If tomorrow isn’t promised, I want to uphold all the promises I’ve made to you, the ones I’ve quietly made to myself. I want to hold my loved ones closer, even if from a physical distance, but with my words, my actions, planned and unplanned text message and Zoom check-ins. I want to adopt a mindset of abundance. I want every step I take to be dignified, compassionate, and impactful.
In making these small, everyday decisions, I realize I am still not anchored to reality. I still dream of an imaginary future. The one that you all exist in. One where perhaps some of the things that I said, did, wrote, shared, and passed down have made some sort of change. One where all of the things we did to collectively imagine and construct a better future made a difference. I hold this imaginary future in my mind and in my heart.
Even if every day I suffer a new crisis of confidence, spiraling into the same pessimistic patterns of doom and gloom, if I couldn’t truly imagine a better future, there would be no point. I wouldn’t write. I wouldn’t contribute to feminist movement spaces organizing towards liberation and prison abolition. What would be the point in publishing an anthology of feminist writers sharing their own visions of real and imaginary realms, if there is no future to read our work?
So much of feminist activism relies not only on our shared traumas but also our collective imagination and creativity. We have to be able to envision a world where our efforts paid off; we must dream up a feminist world. And then we have to construct it. I hope something you read on this website might help you figure out a way to help make this utopia a reality.
Your Editor,
Tiffany Diane Tso