Dear people who care,
I am writing to you while committing a crime—I’m drinking coffee at 7 PM. Deport me!
The coffee is worth it. It’s warm and aromatic, whispering, "Drink me and write; you still have seven waking hours left."
But this is not just a vent or a creative exercise to soothe my soul. I’m publishing this because I need my community.
I want to reach my community without having to repeat myself over and over again individually—a fine use of a newsletter and a blog.
"How are you, Katya?"
"I feel anxious! Lots of nightmares! Here’s one reason why:"
I feel anxious as I write this, daydreaming about wiping my entire online presence—but I feel even more anxious living in a world where bad things are happening, and if I stay silent, I don’t help, and no one helps me. Trying to push past fear. Trying to believe in the better side of humanity. I’m hoping for advice, for compassion, for a many heads are better than one mentality.
To those who have already given me an ear, perspective, and resources—thank you. And thank you in advance to everyone who will help after reading this.
Like every good letter, I’ll start with a story:
“Not the Tree!”
On a Tuesday almost a month ago, I wake up to witness my view changing.
I initially write, "I am woken up to a funeral," but then I feel like a Dramatic Piece of Garbage. No, it’s not that kind of story. Plus, I already texted this to a few people and got my dramatics out of me.
Every morning, for seven and a half years, I drink coffee—it whispers to me, I whisper back—and we gaze out my window. The pigeons coo, and the tree right in front of my building, blocking the brownstones, makes swishing sounds. These gentle noises help drown out the cars shouting at people and people shouting at cars. It's lively and peaceful and very NYC. I feel more alive waking up here than in most places.
Then, with absolutely no warning, that Tuesday, I wake up from one nightmare into another. There are loud drilling sounds, people shouting at people, and I am supposed to sleep for many more hours. Not even coffee is perking me up.
My perfectly fine tree is being cut down.
Branch by branch.
Yell by yell.
The people yelling outside, demanding answers, can’t stop it.
It’s too early for me to join the yellers, so I go full brat instead. Practically naked (I sleep naked), I sit on my window ledge, drinking coffee, death-glaring at the tree destroyers.
They are right by my window—I am impossible to miss—and I want them to see how much pain they are causing me, most of all.
Their awful machine beep beep beeps, then they tie a rope around a branch, then they look at me, and I look back sternly. Then they proceed to cut the branch, and the branch falls, tied to the rope, all the way down. And then an awful, evil person throws it into an even more awful, evil machine that grinds it up.
How dare they? This is my tree. My view.
The tree is perfectly in bloom every season. Seven and a half years.
Out of all the wonky trees around, this one is the least wonky.
I sob, hands clutching my coffee, eyes locked on the tree destroyers.
I drink so much coffee I feel like a rabbit without a burrow—on that Tuesday, and ever since—because the sound of the tree being cut still rings in my ears, and my eyes tear up from the news headlines.
Don’t Call Me by My Name but CALL ME!
The last time I felt this dramatic about opening my eyes to a changed view was when I was a child—waking up on a whole new continent, in a new country where nobody, aside from my small family, knew me. Nobody cared about me. Nobody told me how to be awake in this new reality. And I had to just make it work.
I loved Europe—its architecture, my friends—and when I had to leave everything that felt perfectly fine and fitting for everyone except, apparently, me, I sobbed onto paper while drawing my recently dead cat sobbing. Still love that tears-on-paper aesthetic.
Worse than grief, I felt uneasy. Unsafe.
Everything felt temporary. Getting attached to Brooklyn seemed naive. When new friends called me their "best friend," I'd think, my best friends are in Russia, and yes, I’m here for you—for now. We'll see where I end up. I only really let myself feel attached to a friend in seventh grade, and thank goddess I still have my Debbie.
I was the last person I knew who came here like this.
I got rid of my accent and stayed vague about where I'm from, why I'm here, what was happening. Whatever story my friends would tell others about me—as though I were a fictional character in a book they hadn't read—I would just nod.
A man who went to high school with me—graduated from MIT, owns a crypto company now—was recently talking to my sister about colleges. She mentioned I was born in Russia. He said, “Really?” Two minutes earlier, he had asked if she was related to “Yekaterina.”
Before February 2022, I wouldn’t say the R word. Just in case. My grandparents barely survived the Holocaust—along with plenty of other horrors inflicted by their own community and governments—so at the very least, I’ve always had trust issues—with what to say, when to say it, and who to say it to.
And then other people—children who spoke like me, who were scared like me—started appearing. And I felt so sad for them. And I thought, I am so lucky. I am here, and I am adjusted and safe, and I have to care.
And that meant I had to say the R word.
I started writing about it. I worked on those Terra books. I wanted others like me to feel less lonely than I’ve felt my whole life and get more resources than I did. I did a little but not enough to help.
Then Trump came to power again.
This is what’s new:
ICE has started stopping people in Brooklyn. People who look like me. Family who sound like my family.
Of course, people who look darker—especially them.
But my community is on edge too.
This never ever happened before!
And now, I feel anxious about the R word again.
Now, I want to hurl.
Now, I want to delete all news and social media and never see another headline.
Now, I want to assign specific people to tell me important news—but I doubt anyone cares enough about me to stay on top of it.
Now, I feel motivated to immediately marry a man with two white American names. A George Williams, or something. George Williams can tell his friends whatever story he wants about Kate.
Now, I want to delete everything about me online. Sure, it’s important to have diverse voices on platforms like Substack, but did my family survive generations just for me to draw attention to us because I like the sound of my fingers on a keyboard? My hobbies can be Marriage and Babies.
Now, I tell myself this isn’t about me, I am safe, and then I tell myself, but everything is about me—in my writing, in my head—and I am never safe and who will look out for me if not me?
I was Kate for years. Back to Kate for me, now, I think.
Time to start responding to Kate, again. Time to introduce myself as Kate to new people, again.
Time to cut out everyone who knows me as Katya and pick that nice American man who knows me as Kate and just rebuild with his community.
Seriously. Tell me what to do!
Not in a rhetorical way. Not in a "Katya needed to vent lol" way.
Literally, logistically—what do I do?
Yes, I am a citizen, I have the paperworks, I always pay my taxes, but what else should I do? Get that Real ID card. File taxes ASAP. What else?
Give me a plan. Give me advice. Send me resources.
What do I do? Because I really want to delete everything about me and go incognito.
Is it too late? Did I already write too much?
Just don’t tell me not to worry. I need to protect my family and their friends and the immigrant communities in NYC.
Kate Worries.
I worry about me. I worry about everyone without flood, fire, or any other kind of insurance. I worry about the safety of all women. I worry about everyone who relies on daily medication, everyone counting on others to wear masks. I worry about the safety of all trans people. I worry about everyone who doesn’t look like a 6’5" finance guy with a trust fund and blue eyes. I worry about all the peaceful people in Palestine and in Israel. In Ukraine and in Russia. I worry about everyone with an accent in Brooklyn.
I worry that all the news right now is just a distraction from something even worse.
I worry about my privileged American friends worrying about the news but who never worried about me. I worry about my privileged American friends worrying about the news who worry about me so much that they check in almost every day.
It is cooler to care than to worry, and still—
Katya Cares will soon be Kate Worries and then (not the worst scenario), jk, Kate is perfectly fine 🤪 here are pics of her dinners and clothes and drinks and crafts and whatever Bo tells me white women are supposed to do on Instagram and IRL (assuming I still have all this and I still exist online).
You, in New York, Will Talk About the R Word.
You probably can’t relate to me.
You probably don’t have nightmares of waking up in a new place with new views. You probably have daydreams of waking up on vacation.
You probably wake up to a familiar ceiling, in a city that has always belonged to you.
You probably don’t think twice about which name to introduce yourself with, which version of yourself is safest to present.
You probably know better than drinking coffee at 7 PM and publishing public rants to friends, coworkers, lovers alike.
You’re so wise. And have I told you, how nice your eyes are?
I know that someone as smart and handsome as you will do the right thing.
You will be summarizing articles like this one for people who don’t have access to The Times.
You will be sending people who might need, information like:
Instead of football parties and cute little Galentine's dinners, you'll be hosting wine and cheese gatherings where you write letters to senators.
You’ll make a party out of it! You still eat snacks, don’t worry.
Don’t worry, you don’t need to worry.
But also, tell me what to do.
You're so smart. You're so American. You know everything about politics. You're so educated and brilliant, with so much privilege and voice and power.
And you know why what is happening is happening.
You’re going to help, at least this R, this time, for sure.
Right?
It’s Been a Long Month Since My Tree Became A Stump, And Since Trump.
I wake up slower. I drink stronger coffee. I whisper to it quieter.
And I can no longer picture what my tree used to look like.
My view isn’t branches and pigeons anymore.
It’s brownstones’ interiors.
Americans are there right now, cheering for football.
I don’t know who’s winning.
Or what any of it means.
But maybe it’s time to join them.
Thanks for reading this post, which I wrote on Super Bowl Sunday—when I was feeling particularly disenchanted with America.
I welcome you to sit with this, give it a think, and then send me an email or message me on Substack.
I know it’s V-Day week here in America, and love matters even more in hateful times. Maybe I’ll do a cute, joyful February V-Day care package soon—unless you tell me to wipe my entire online existence first, because I’m this close to disappearing and only keeping in touch with a few people I trust…
With love and a little bit of panic,
Still Katya, Still Caring Online (for now)