After a few months I was essentially in a polycule with Zamira and her traumas. Every conversation was like laparoscopic surgery, a delicate lifesaving procedure performed near-blind, and any attempt to set boundaries was taken as a wholesale rejection of her and our shared ideals. Why couldn’t I drive her to and from a flower shop in West Oakland for an anti-war poetry reading? Was it for the same reason I didn’t share and retweet her post about her new ($900-a-head) three-day community fermentation class for BIPOC? Or let her propagate her monstera cuttings on my vacant windowsill? Always with that syllogism that all bad-faith identitycels use: I am an X, and you don’t support me, therefore you don’t support X. Of course this cynically exploits the real facts of bigotry, that people generally are out to get X, so it’s hard to dispute in general terms, even though, wait a fucking minute, I’M X TOO!!!