Who Are My People?

One of the side effects of Prozac is insomnia.
I wake up earlier than I normally would before the medication, thinking. This morning, I woke up thinking about bills.
The hospital bill, the ambulance fee, my school bill, my now useless loans.
Then I kept thinking, and I realized that what I owe is a fraction compared to what others owe.
I realized that for some people, a week-long hospital stay is a mortgage.
And then I kept thinking.
First about money, and how it is, in so many ways, not real at all, yet so powerful.
How money buys privilege and safety and comfort.
How it keeps people up at night, keeps people in cycles of poverty while others only seem to get more of it.
I don’t know where I’m going with this.
I guess I’m just wondering why I am waking up so worried about money as I take my medication that I have access to. As I make breakfast out of fresh food. As I drink coffee, and type on my laptop, and look out into my backyard from a house that I do not pay rent on because my parents don’t have to ask that of me.
I am wondering why I did not cry when in 2019 alone, five black trans women–Dana Martin, Ashanti Carmon, Claire Legato, Muhlaysia Booker, and Tameka Washington–were murdered for just existing.
I am wondering why I do not think more often about how the people of Flint, Michigan have been without clean water for 1,853 days.
I am wondering why I did not give time to read an article about how Carlos Gregorio Hernandez Vasquez is the fifth child to die under U.S. Border Patrol.
I am wondering why I am not more bothered that there is a system designed to break the bones of those who have less. That I benefit from that system.
I am wondering whose blood it takes to break my heart, to keep me up at night, to move to do anything more than sit from my parents’ kitchen table and write a blog.
Who are my people? What does it take?