I am embarrassed at the state of these g's but the only way to get better is to try.

Back when this site was new, I wrote a post called "On Trying," an attempt at capturing my belief that trying is everything. Back then, we were a few years past the awful height of the pandemic, the election that ushered in Trump 2 was still in the future, and things hadn't fallen apart as completely as they have now. While I felt fairly battered from the previous few years, saying that I was trying felt like an optimistic act.

Now, of course, things are worse and, as they stack up against us—most recently the Supreme Court's gutting of the voting rights act and the scramble of neo-Confederate states to redraw their congressional districts—there's a real sense of despair among many.

But here's the thing: Trying is still all we have.

It's not even optimistic to say we have to try, it's just necessary. To give up, to stop trying, is to accept that things can't change. As Audrey Lord put it: "despair is a tool of our enemies." Despair is a gift to those that want you to believe that what we've got is all we'll get and there's no way to make things better.

Things can always get better, but it doesn't happen via inertia. It happens because a lot of people tried. Pretty much every big change—every inch made toward progress—has been done because people dreamed it was possible and tried to make it happen. They didn't always succeed. They always tried.

Which is not to say that trying has to only be about big things and making big changes. Trying can be small, it can be about attempting a new skill, about learning something you've been curious about, about testing yourself to see what if. Besides, understanding that small change is possible is the foundation of trying big change.

A couple weeks ago I took a hand lettering class from designer Ken Barber. It was four and a half hours long on Zoom on a Saturday. I signed up during a bout of insomnia, but the day-of I was busy (I'm always busy) and there was a part of me that wanted to bag it. But I made myself stick with it and, hands covered with ink, I realized that I was feeling hopeful not because I was good at the thing (I wasn't) or because there was anything particularly hopeful about the lesson (I believe we were just rewriting the letter G over and over at the time), but because I was learning and trying and challenging myself.

Being able to write a lowercase brush casual G doesn't really advance anything particularly important, but it did give me something to work on—something to strive for—at a time where it's easy to feel like nothing is possible. Continuing to challenge yourself—even at things that don't really matter—is crucial to, well, everything. Not trying, not learning, not pushing yourself into new skills and new practices, is a fast way to let despair win.

In a must-read letter to young activists, Mariame Kaba writes "I don’t know how things will turn out, but I am committed to something other than this"

She's right: There's no way to know how things are going to turn out, but ceding ground to despair is a pretty solid way to know it won't turn out in our favor.

Times are tough right now, there's no denying that. The threats are very real and unrelenting. The damage that has already been done is staggering. Despair is easy. But you have to imagine new possibilities, and the only way to do that is to try.

I got caps.

Is this a way of selling you a hat? Well, no and also yes.

Around the same time that I wrote the original trying blog post, I ordered a one-off patch, orange and black, that read TRYING, because at the time I wanted something to remind me to keep at it. I posted that one-off on the internet and a bunch of people wanted them, so I placed a bulk order and put them on sale. Those sold fast and I ordered more. And more.

Eventually, some friends bought an embroidery shop and I wanted to toss them some business, so I made trying beanies for the winter. And, like the patches, those sold quickly so I ordered more and then more again.

Now it's not beanie weather and I ordered a bunch of different baseball hats with the same trying design on it, which I guess has become something of a wordmark now. And you wouldn't believe it (well maybe you would) but I just placed a reup order on those too.

All because three years ago I needed to remember to try. Maybe you need it too, I've got plenty of hats for you.

Also I should add: selling a bunch of beanies paid for my research trip to Muncie Indiana in March. The reality is that book advances for first-time anti-fascist nonfiction don't exactly pay for the book to get done and so reminding myself to try is actually now helping me try to write this book. Full circle.