This past year-and-a-half has been traumatic. Millions became unemployed, houseless and struggling to find their next meal. We all watched a Black man murdered by police on camera. We saw the windows of our nation’s capitol smashed and its halls violated by a far-right insurrection. You’d think witnessing these sorts of things would be fodder for a mass mobilization of citizens, that this great awakening would create class solidarity to uproot the evils of white supremacy and the suppressive weight of late-stage capitalism, but it has not.

I am exhausted of it all, and I am sure you are, too. If I must see another breaking news headline, I might as well leave my life behind and take up the old hermit’s post on Ampersand Mountain. When I close my eyes at night, I can see Instagram posts with a nauseous pastel-colored background in a terrible Arial font telling me why I should be boycotting Goya food products on the back of my eyelids. But what has changed? Barely anything. Last summer I watched Minneapolis’ 3rd Precinct go up in flames in the name of Black liberation, and today I have attended what must be my 300th virtual meeting on climate change action. Still nothing.

I chalked it up to COVID fatigue and the slow hands of time. The loss of over 500,000 lives has desensitized everyone; Lord knows I have become numb to tragedy. I know that these events do not exist in a vacuum and that everyone is dealing with their own grief given these past two years of suffering, but I became even more disheartened as the months have dragged on.

I spoke with politicians running for local, state and federal office who were asking for my organizations’ endorsements but were too scared to publicly say, defund the police and others who would pander to the neo-liberal voter fear of socialism infiltrating their quaint village lives. When asking for advice on running for an elected position, I was ambiguously asked by a politician what I was willing to do for them in return. I had hope when the village government progressively stated that “racism is a public health crisis,” but then it let a male member of the Development Board publicly tell a woman she “had a big mouth” when she spoke up about women’s reproductive rights. (Spoiler alert: He’s still on the board.) I sat silently in shock in meetings where liberal groups collectively decided not to say “Black Lives Matter” anymore because it was too divisive of a statement to make in a predominantly white-conservative area.

I have become convinced that the past year of work amounted to very little because most of it was performative; actions done by people in power, with influence and means to make themselves feel better or because they were simply bored. They were not done to uplift BIPOC voices or to protect society’s most vulnerable; they were done to obtain a vote, to increase popularity or to repent for a tone-deaf statement made some years ago. The motivation inside me to keep working toward a better tomorrow is almost gone, and I no longer feel comfortable in spaces where this culture of performative activism occurs. What is the point in trying if the topic will lose popularity in a few weeks?

It was a fad for them, and they did not care at all. So while they take pictures at this year’s Pride event with a rainbow flag, I cannot help but be upset and, above all else, tired. I say this not to gatekeep activism. Indeed, there is room for everyone at its table (writing letters, making art, calling your representative, donating money, etc.), but there is no room for the half-hearted who toss out just causes like dirty socks when the media takes away its spotlight. Personally, I would rather them outright say they do not care; it is better than pretending. Until they realize that performative activism is worse than doing nothing, grassroots organizers must conserve what energy they have to keep their movements alive.

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Madeline Clark lives in Saranac Lake.