In the midst of Autumn 2017 I was deep in the throes of psychosis. It was my second trip to the psych ward in as many years; the first trip was tied with a cute little narrative bow of too many uppers chased with downers, no sleep, and the wig-flipping disbelief that America let Biff Tannen win. During the 2016 episode I proclaimed I had successfully “slayed patriarchy” and “killed the Universe” using the power of my mind. My, my, my, check out the big brain on Brad!
The manic episode I suffered the following year was an unasked for present slobbishly shoved inside a reused gift bag with the card signed “You’re welcome. XOXO, #metoo.” Also weed. I know I’ve mentioned this before but I cannot stress enough, if a dealer offers you a strain called “Freddie Krueger,” politely decline and go for the Gorilla Glue instead.
Enough about drugs. Back to Carin’ about Karen. During that 2017 stay I spent most of my visit on another plane in another time. Sometimes I was transitioning into a unicorn, other times I was Robin Wiliams or a pigeon from Sesame Street, or a miniature Brienne of Tarth. But as I became more present into this, the darkest and dumbest of timelines, I was making proclamations to anyone who’d listen. And at that time, the only people who were listening were my husband and sister, who were a two-person super squad advocating for me in a hospital that neglected to keep me bathed and fed when I was too far gone to do those things myself.
I don’t remember a majority of my stay, but as time progressed I slowly slinked out of catatonia into an altered, almost-there return to normalcy. On one of these nights my sister and husband visited, I felt like I was levitating in my bed not unlike Zuul from Ghostbusters. I kept alternating cat/cow and child’s pose, complaining that I was an “overfed horse.” I then proclaimed we needed “to start caring about Karen.”
“Okay. But who’s Karen?” My sister asked, half humoring my crazy ass/half genuinely curious as to what I meant. The only Karen we knew was a woman who lived a few houses down in our childhood home, the wife of a cop and the mother of a handful of odd kids who attended the same parochial grade school we did. I didn’t mean that Karen at the time (I think I was referring to either Karen Kilgariff or Karen Walker from Will & Grace; it’s anyone’s guess). But maybe I do now?
A Karen, as we are all collectively aware, is a specific subset of white lady crusaders who believe it is their God-given right to police the world against any people or actions that don’t align with theirs. Karens confuse their whiteness with authority. Karens don’t rail against patriarchy, they grip onto the coattails of it with all their white might because if their husband (Karens are rarely single) is number one atop the pyramid of identity politics, they come in at a close second. Phyllis Schlafly is not a Karen but she is their architect. Schlafly’s anti-feminist housewives-in-solidarity are Karen’s ancestors, and they are terrified as they watch their worldview becoming more and more out of focus.
Trump, a celebrated chauvinist and misogynist who bragged about what a hot slice his daughter is well before his campaign, won 53% of the white women vote. That’s a shit-ton of Karens, and I realize now that those are the Karens we need to start caring about. They’re becoming increasingly disenfranchised, and not without reason! There is a shit-ton of footage posted online of Karens policing people to “speak English” or “go back to their country” or questioning whether or not some kids have a license to drive.
Karens retaliate against the poor depiction of themselves caught on countless unedited uploads. They liken the “K-slur” to the “N-word.” They’re frantic, worrying that if their patriarchal daddy-husbands go the way of the dinosaur, they will too. But, Karen. There is hope.
Surely, some of you have a Karen in your life. Perhaps it’s a relationship that can’t be broken. But maybe you’re a Becky. Or a Megan. Or worse, an Amy. And even though you’da voted for Obama three times if you coulda, or you’re a monthly donor to Planned Parenthood, or you were proudly wearing your pussy hat while marching in frigid DC January 2017, you’re just as complicit as Karen in the stabilization and insularity that white supremacy promises.
Hopefully this isn’t news to you. And if it is, you’re getting it from the wrong source, bb.
I had my last manic episode last month. It netted me another two weeks in the psych ward. This time there were no substances involved so I now have a diagnosis and the correct meds to keep me feeling sane in an increasingly batshit crazy world. I am on the bipolar spectrum apparently. Works for me. I was discharged on July 4th. I declared it the Emancipation of Me! Me! because there is very little to celebrate about living in America. Even for scaredy cat Karen.
Grandiosity is a symptom of being bipolar, and for a long time I thought it was my personal responsibility to rescue all the marginalized people I’m indebted to for bringing me so much joy in music, art, or text. My hubris kept me from understanding my place in all of this, or the knowledge that the queer black people I admire so much have already been doing this groundwork for centuries and I should just stop worrying where my place is and get out of their way and let them do the damn thing. They’ve been fighting for a long time and they know what they’re doing without input from a well-intentioned-but-out-of-her-depth Megan such as myself.
"Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare," is Audre Lorde’s oft-repeated quote, and it’s no joke. We are not free until everyone is liberated, which might mean forever and that's a mighty long time. But while we’re here, in this blip of a second we are a speck of dust on this wacky planet, let’s find some joy and light up others who are doing the same. We can even let Karens have some joy too, as a treat.
Media has always been my go-to tool for education. But there is a wealth of garbage out there. I should know, being Garbage Girl. I used to find joy hate-watching Bravo reality TV, but I no longer get satisfaction as a voyeur ridiculing whites behaving badly. I’m grateful I was able to get that hate-watching monkey off of my back ‘cause she was a hard one to shake. I’m also detoxing from social media, which has been more difficult during a pandemic. But I would die happy never having to see another white dude playing armchair activist over BLM messaging or castigating a Karen fighting for her rights to get a haircut or get some frozen yogurt. It’s so boring and the same playbook and why don’t we try something different this go-around.
Like instead of castigation, why not compassion? Karen’s world is in shambles. Up is down. Left is right. White is an impurity staining every fiber embedded in the world. Instead of shame, try some show and tell. Maybe not with the Karens who are strangers on the internet, but the Karens on your block, or in your house, or in your brain.
I wish I could follow my own advice, but I’m afraid the Karen in my life is too far gone. I gave birth to myself (metaphorically, obvi) during my last hospital stay, and I like having a Megan as my mom. Megan’s cool. Megan’s caring. Megan loves colors and dancing and singing and walking children in nature. #notallmegans