Los Angeles: This feels like a reality show, but it's just reality.

Waking up from the "American Dream"

This post is a part for me and part for you. Read it with soft eyes and an open heart.

Photo by M ACCELERATOR on Unsplash

Often, I lead with compassion. With love. I try to be light in dark spaces. It’s not forced positivity, it’s my nature. How my grandmother raised me. To see the light. To find hope.

My grandmother was the first person in our family to move from Trinidad to the United States. An immigrant. Once she was able to establish herself, she sent for my mother, who was 8 at the time. An immigrant.

I was born in Queens, but raised in an immigrant household. My last name belonging to a man I never knew. It’s my understanding that Mr. Goodman is how my grandmother and mother became legal citizens.

My grandmother and mother had their trials as they continued to sacrifice for the American Dream. Nevertheless the impact on their respective communities is still felt. Grandma in particular. She was a giver. The epitome of generosity. And the definition of a hard worker. Immigrants tend to be. When you leave your country and everything you know behind, it requires a different kind of heart beat. A steroids kind of resilience. A strength that can hold generations on its shoulders. Generations that you’ll know, and many you’ll never meet. I am who I am because of my grandmother. My compassion, my love, my light is fruit from her tree. So you can imagine how horrifying it is, to watch immigrants, specifically Brown ones, being hunted. Kidnapped. And while I’ve done my best since 2020 to publicly find and share light in this abyss of darkness, I’m exhausted. I need to talk my shit. Because as the brilliant

Erica Chidi

reminded me with a quote from “Ancestors Said” by Ehimie Ora “It’ll be easier on your spirit if you live in harmony with your shadow. Rather than trying to be all light. You cannot eat apart of yourself and still expect to feel full.”

So what follows below is my journal entry from this morning. Writing is my way of thinking. Gaining clarity of my feelings. Blowing off steam and soothing my heart. The entry is unedited, and stream of consciousness. It’s not perfect, and who knows if I'll regret sharing. But I’m sharing anyways because perhaps you’re also feeling more than one thing in this moment. Perhaps you’re someone who also doesn’t often tap into their rage—their shadow—and need permission to do so. Perhaps you’re also confused on what to say or how to respond in an effective way to the violence being enacted on your neighbors and community. Perhaps you are on high alert, and feel like a sitting duck waiting for the violence to come to your doorstep. I hope this makes you feel less alone and invites you to exist in your duality. You can be terrified and brave. You can be pissed off and lead with love. You can be unsure of what to do and still do something. There is no perfect way to process what feels like a reality show, but is in fact just reality. The only thing we can do is resist and fight together.

June 11th, 2025

America is eating itself. I’m not sure if I should be surprised. A nation that has become numb to school shootings, elects T**** twice, has representatives who vote to cut Medicare of course is a nation that would have armed forces turned on its civilians. My phone is a little screen of stunning horrors. I’ve watched a reporter be detained, a reporter shot with rubber bullets, I watched a white woman trying to get to her apartment have one of those rubber bullets shot at her in point blank range. I’ve watched civilians trying to intercept a kidnapping get run over by unmarked ICE vehicles. I’ve watched grown men in masks forcefully wrestle women to the ground as they wail in terror for their children—children wailing back for their mother. I’ve watched people scream at the troops and law enforcement trying to appeal to their moral compass only to have those same troops raise their guns. I’ve watched law enforcement on horses using bats to beat what a news reporter thought was a bag, but was in fact a person. All this while the president and White House continue to spin out lies, invoke fear, produce a narrative of violent immigrants and rioting citizens, when really it’s concerned, rightfully angry, but peaceful communities standing up to fascism.

I find myself spiraling watching it all, while being inside it all. Envious of people in other countries able to give their opinions while knowing their rights are safe.

All this and bills are still due. All this and deadlines are still in effect. All this and personal lives still need to be managed. Balancing work life and home life inside a country that is eating itself is a harrowing feat. One I don’t feel equipped for. I find myself unsure of where to channel my energy. This feels serious. Is serious. And even still there are folx saying, “it’s not my fight”. The individualism will be the death of us. The last bite.

Willful ignorance. Willfully ignoring what’s happening as though the targets won’t shift from undocumented immigrants to documented immigrants to US born citizens. As if we aren’t already targets. As if there is a moral line or even a judicial line that is protecting us. As if we aren’t figurines in a political doll house. Literally our rights are being taken away. Our progress.

And yet somehow, many are still very relaxed. Very, business as usual.

I found myself spiraling on the couch last night because I’ve been talking about moving abroad, independent of what’s been happening. Just for my own experience. And now I can’t help but feel like for my safety, I need to leave before they take away that right. Ironically a few days before the National Guard was deployed someone said to me in reference to the government fuckery, that LA and New York would be fine. Sanctuary cities. Won’t be fully impacted. I hate to admit, I felt eased by that. Like there’s a sliver of breathing room to figure out all of this bullshit without feeling like we’re going to be navigating the violence of the government. Cut to Los Angeles being thee target. The testing ground of militarizing a city. Or a portion of it. I know the media has made it seem worse than it is. But it’s still terrifying. Even if it was contained to only one block. Those are still humans having their rights fucked with. And what they do to one of us, they can do to all of us.

Thankfully Los Angeles is a strong city, and we are standing up to the attempted dictatorship. Even writing that word. It’s like all the shit we learned about in Middle School history classes that seemed barbaric, archaic, horrifically inhumane is now happening in real time. I’m stunned. Sometimes frozen. I began packing a to-go bag. I don’t know where I’d even go. Earlier this year when fires tore through Los Angeles, we had our bags and were plotting where to go for safety. But if the whole country is on fire, where am I going? Leaving the country is a different set of obstacles. One I’m exploring but not sure if it’s really viable. Life is hard enough without worrying if your government is gonna try and kill you. Or imprison you. I know the world is filled with violence and cruelty. But it still baffles me how easily it’s ignored. How easily that cruelty is enacted and supported. I’ve just never hated anyone that much, or craved power so insanely. I don’t get it. I don’t understand it. When I see it, it feels…cinematic? It feels like it belongs on screen, because it’s…dramatic? And yet I have to admit and accept it’s actually very human. Maybe not part of my own human experience or those I’m in community with, but hate and power are in all those history books. It feels cinematic, perhaps because art imitates life, and my relationship to hate and power is mostly from movies. In my real life I’ve experienced some moments of people’s hate and pursuit of power, but not at this scale. Perhaps it’s the scale of it that feels like something out of a Marvel film. Perhaps it’s my background as a TV writer that can see the strings of production expertly organized by the White House. If I were writing this as a script, having my antagonist/villain attempt to “take over” Los Angeles would be the perfect crescendo. A thrilling conflict worthy of a hero’s battle. But ain’t no Captain America. No American Dream for that matter. Shit was a fallacy, and if I wasn’t awake to that before—which I was— I’m even more awake to it now.

I say all this, and realize my privilege is showing. My grandmother, a Black woman, who moved to America in 1962, only 25 years before I was born, had an intimate relationship with people’s hate. Yet she managed to be light. Fought for a life that would allow me to be light.

Scrolling between comedy videos, shirtless models, red carpet lewks, and mothers being wrestled to the ground by ICE agents is corroding my psyche in ways I probably won’t understand until my next life. But for now, I’m letting myself be pissed. I said to someone, this all feels so intense. And then I I realized I needed a better word. Being hunted and attacked in front of your children is not “intense”. It’s abominable. Heinous. Cruel. Unforgivable.

I’ma get back to the love and light because as Lisa ( the director of my stage show) said last night, “I want my fuck you to the world, to be love.” But right now, it’s just a fuck you to anyone who supports this shit or feels like it’s not their fight. And as uncomfortable as fuck you is to write, I think it’s important. Because the anger laced in that “fuck you” will become action. Will become resistance. Will become fuel for this freedom fight.

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I appreciate you reading. I encourage you to stay safe, and keep your community safe. Remember activism has many lanes. Protest, donation, boycotting, bail funds, reporting danger, amplifying information. Every lane matters. Don’t worry about doing the “correct” thing, just do something. And keep doing something. Remember to rest, remember to savor joy when you can, remember to lean on your community and ask for help. I love you, and highly recommend reading the latest post from

Erica Chidi

about ways to take care of your heart during these pressing times. You can also join me in donating to Coalition for Humane Immigrant Rights.

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To send me questions, comments, or share a messy story please email TellMeSomethingMessy@gmail.com

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And in case you haven’t heard it yet today, you are so deeply loved. I love you.