Jacques Derrida, the “father” of “deconstruction,” has fascinated me ever since I learned about him in literary theory. Before he died in 2004, the French philosopher did a charming interview for a documentary in which he cracked a joke about close reading when his small home library was questioned, saying something like, “I haven’t read many books, but I’ve read a few very closely.”
I believe in creating. I believe in constructing.
Destroying and destructing aren’t in my idealist vocabulary, and this has caused some deep questioning for me and my “zero waste” pledge. Between the declaration of what I’m *not* going to do to harm the planet, and an increasingly urgent need to point out what is *wrong* – the recent death of Alton Sterling weighing particularly heavy on my heart at the moment – I’m conflicted about my purpose. Am I supposed to invite you to my cozy alternative shelter, or do I go about “fixing” the broken home we share by reforming its offending parts?
The intersection of these beliefs – righteous anger at evil and an idealist insistence on