Editor's Desk 
I knew I had gone too far when the question of whether we should buy a gun crossed my mind. This came at the apex of a weeklong anxiety spiral triggered by a New York Times feature about the possibility of an 18-month nationwide blackout. I was uneasy seeing the phrase “art form” used to describe the archaic manufacturing process of the transformers that underpin our electrical grid; the process involves painstakingly bespoke techniques of winding copper coils, wrapping paper insulation, and binding wiring, all by hand. The intensity and intricacy of that process means that there is a backlog of transformer manufacturing and repair, sometimes stretching as long as five years. There are more than 55,000 substations in the United States, but according to a Federal Energy Regulatory Commission official cited in the article, only nine of the most powerful substations would need to be taken out to trigger a nationwide blackout, which could go on to last as long as 18 months.
At the same time I read this article, an actual blackout was taking place in Gary, Indiana, a state where more than 370,000 people—the population is disproportionately black—were left in the dark for two weeks before power was restored. My social media feeds filled with videos of people rushing to put fresh batteries into their flashlights because the longer they stayed in a lit car, “the more chance you have of somebody running up and pistol-whipping you.” This same creator said that people were robbing each other for generators and called it “the motherfucking apocalypse.” I replayed the videos and then thought about them for days, imagining how I would respond in that type of situation and knowing that I was completely unprepared to defend myself if I needed to do so.
Compounding my anxiety was the fact that I am five months pregnant with my first child. I am trying to keep a grasp on a sense of coherent identity as my body becomes unrecognizable and mega-doses of hormones wreak havoc on my sanity. I have historically been ambivalent about parenthood; as the oldest of four kids, I resented caretaking and never harbored dreams of being a mother. But as this fetus makes its presence more evident, I am increasingly aware of the way my brain is reorienting around this helpless being for whom I will be completely responsible in just a few months’ time. In my adult life thus far, I’ve imagined the future as wide-open and abundant with choice, where any successes or mistakes I make will primarily affect me and no one else. Now I can feel my attention, energy, and resources reorienting toward this small human who didn’t ask to be born and has no idea what they’re in for. I am responsible for me and for this person, and if I fuck up, they will bear the consequences.
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