what do you do when your hero dies?

 What do you do when your hero dies? How does one mourn the super-human? Or those we have never met? Why do I feel simultaneously crushed and very much the same as I did before? How does my coffee taste the same while the world is so radically different? Who is left to inspire? What should I do now?

This morning I woke up, halfway around the world from my home of Washington, DC, to the news that one of my heroes died. News notifications and messages from friends and family littered my home screen but none of it feels real because everyone in the US is asleep and no one will respond to my texts. I live in their tomorrow, the place where the news of Ruth Bader Ginsburg's death will hopefully sting a little less. No one is awake to answer the questions swirling around my head since I read that first headline, but truthfully, I'm not sure that anyone could. 

I'm making the self-centered assumption that if I'm facing this abyss of uncertainty in response to Ginsburg's death, others must be experiencing something similar. I can't get past the questions and don't understand how to proceed; there is no manual for grief, particularly when it concerns the passing of a cultural icon. As a movement for gender equality, we stood on our own to build RBG to her rightful place as the face of a revolution, now we must guide ourselves through her absence. The best way I know how to do this is by writing, so I'm choosing to share my thoughts here as a form of self-reflective journaling. I'll try to answer some of the questions I've posed above but in reality, their answers will likely look different for everyone. Regardless, I firmly believe we make the most of RBG's memory by choosing to unpack what she meant to each of us and by making a commitment to our own respective fights for equality.

What do you do when your hero dies?

I am unashamed to admit that, after responding to a few of the texts about her death I received from my incredible network of family and friends, I posted about RBG's death and my own thoughts on my Instagram story. In the wake of an incredible resurgence of BLM to the spotlight via twitter and Instagram and in an age of information overload, social change appears to be largely driven through social media. As a member of Gen Z, I can see that Instagram-advocacy can be substantive and not simply performative, so long as there is thought behind the post and that our fight for greater justice doesn't end when we click "share".  I feel it's important to address something so seemingly trivial as a post on social media because it serves as a reminder that everyone grieves in their own way. Lately, it feels as though our posting habits are constantly scrutinized by our own peers. It's almost as if our human-ness must be validated by what we share online rather than by our actions beyond the tiny squares we share with our followers. For some, posting online about the loss of a loved one is helpful, for others it helps to withdraw from social media. I believe that both options (as well as everything in-between) are appropriate ways to handle tragedies like the one we are experiencing today. 

Ruth Bader Ginsburg was, to me and to so many others, super-human. She stood as a pillar for gender equality and represented the fight so many people in the US experience on a daily basis for basic human decency. She wasn't super-human in the sense that I believed she was any more capable than the millions of women around the world who wake up each morning to fight on behalf of greater justice for others. Rather, she existed beyond the realm of the commonplace because she allowed herself to shine as a beacon of hope for what a headstrong and fiercely independent Jewish girl could become. She was more than a leader. For me, she represented almost everything I ever wanted to be and more. So I mourn by separating the two. Despite how grim the world may seem at the moment, and the fact that we lost an incredible powerhouse of a woman, we did not lose what she represented—what she allowed me, and so many other girls like me, to believe I could do. 

I am now faced with the fact that, despite the heaviness in my heart today, my life will quite nearly proceed almost exactly as it did before her death. I have the privilege to take for granted the groundwork Ginsburg laid as I apply for grad school, law school, and then for my first position as an attorney. Or the fact that even though she no longer presides over the court, someone who looks like me once held that role and I can hold onto that forever. Yes, there will be some changes and yes, there is even more at stake than there was before at the November election. But I am unbelievably lucky to know that, for the most part, life will carry on for me largely as it did before her death. I hope every member of any marginalized group gets to experience the privilege of returning to a semi-normal life after the loss of an icon, and it is the responsibility of those with the privilege to move on to ensure everyone else has the same right. For too many, the absence of progress equates to a devaluation of basic human rights— a standstill should not equate a step backward. We can honor Ginsburg's memory by fighting on behalf of those for whom that is their reality. 

It is our responsibility to fill the gaping void Ginsburg left behind and inspire the next faces of a movement. It is also our responsibility to be the faces of that movement. To all of my fellow 20-somethings out there, this is our time to kickstart a revolution of change. To establish ourselves and the work we do as the inspiration for the next little girl who wants to be a judge, doctor, astronaut, or President. Read a book that challenges your beliefs, listen to a podcast to learn about something new, take stock of what you are most grateful for, and then go out and make sure everyone else has access to those same privileges. I feel lucky that Ruth Bader Ginsburg carried the burden of an entire generation of women on her back, but now, it's our turn to pick up the torch.

xx, lindz