we need each other
rawdogging life | dispatches from another protest
At the end of June, I lost my AirPods, or they got stolen, I’m not sure. I wasn’t in a rush to get them back. They had already noticeably begun the slow descent into uselessness, obsolescence as planned. I had my flight back to the United States in a week, so I could wait to buy some new ones.1
And so I went on with my week, only now I was “rawdogging life,” as a friend responded after I texted him at around midnight a few days later that I was “listening to 360 on repeat in my head on the bus atm.” I use public transit almost every day here in Buenos Aires. Totally at the mercy of my fellow riders and the metal vessels hurtling forward carrying us, I was no longer the curator of my auditory experience.
Buses heave like the bellows of an organ, sighing gently each time they stoop to adjust their load, which is something humans do too, you know, before picking up a child or giving a friend a piggy-back ride, grunting with the initial effort and then shifting to a comfortable position for both carrier and carried before journeying onward.
I usually carry a book with me wherever I go, although in the past, on public transit, the ease of pulling out my AirPods and listening to music or a podcast would beat out reading most of the time. I might even close my eyes and effectively pretend that I were alone, putting up as many sensory barriers between me and my fellow commuters as possible. In my new earbud-less era, though, I was much more inclined to bring out whatever I was reading.2
Having reading material in hand did not change the fact that my ears kept hearing what was around me. In Argentina, people record voice memos on WhatsApp more often than they send written texts, and since I’m nosy, you bet I was listening (at the expense of finishing whatever chapter I was on). One woman sitting across from me on the bus left me sincerely impressed with how many creative iterations of “mi amor” she could dedicate to whomever she was addressing, and I had to keep myself from kicking my feet and grinning.
Every so often, the bus I’m in will stop at a red light next to another one, and I imagine they might rev their engines and start to race when the light turns green. But every time, without fail, one driver rolls down the window and the other opens their door, and they just shoot the shit for 15-20 seconds. I almost always hear my driver laugh, which must be one of the only moments of relaxation and comfort in a difficult job that requires constant focus and quick reflexes, and it makes me smile.
I went back to the U.S. from late June to late July, and spending time with friends and family filled me with warmth. I also read a lot, especially on the 40-minute Harlem Line train between Fleetwood and Grand Central, which felt good. I didn’t end up buying another pair of AirPods or any other headphones.
When I got back to Argentina, I felt the loneliest I’ve ever felt. I’d severely underestimated the amount of time I’d need to readjust to my routine down here after spending a month at home, and coincidentally some of my close friends were out of the country, and it didn’t help that I was coming from a balmy Northern Hemisphere summer to peak wintry gloom on the other side of the equator. I was also struggling to get back to work pitching articles — I felt like I had landed on square one again, even though I was coming up on a whole year living abroad, and I beat myself up for even allowing myself to slip and fall.
For most of my life, I’ve been unwilling to admit that I’m capable of loneliness. I don’t get lonely; I don’t really miss people. It could be a defense mechanism that I built up as a child of divorced parents who lived four hours apart, maybe years of deluding myself until I believed it. I’ve internalized it so deeply that it must be true that I’ve worked out how not to be lonely, even it situations where it might afflict your average person. I suspect this may be the case with many of those of us who are comfortable with solitude, or even prefer it. The occasional moments of hollow ennui that I remember from my adolescence, of feeling like every other person in the world was looking at me through the wrong end of a telescope, were only exceptions to the rule.
As a result, even when I was in the throes of this depression and my screen time reached ungodly numbers — major chicken-egg problem there, by the way — I wasn’t totally able (or willing) to diagnose this issue, until what I described in my journal on August 1 as a “breakthrough therapy session” in which I finally came to terms with the extent of my loneliness. It had both social and professional elements: after spending a month with my family and friends who have known me for years and years, it was naturally difficult to return to an environment in which even my closest friends haven’t known me for more than half a year; and freelancing is hard and isolating at times. And I missed my people back home! So I came up with a plan, which included reaching out (something I struggle with in general) and setting up some friend dates. I’m pleased to report that it got better as I settled into my routine again and just hung out with people more.
I just finished rereading How to Do Nothing by Jenny Odell. She has a chapter entitled “Exercises in Attention” in which she describes listening to a John Cage piece that subsequently opens her ears to the quotidian soundscape of her urban environment, replete with cars honking, buses sighing, the wind rustling the leaves. You begin to “transcend the self,” as Odell writes. I wrote about this a year ago, when I first moved to Buenos Aires, with regard to the birds and trees that I was familiarizing myself with in my new (and their long-time) home.
Although it was months ago, I think I didn’t want to buy new earbuds largely because I liked having the sensory walls down between myself and my surroundings. Instead of natural sounds, I craved a degree of connection with the people around me. Even while I was (sometimes just ostensibly) working from cafés, my ears were perked; if I was marginally more distracted and less productive, it was worth it to listen to the cautious questions and jokes of a first date, or the group of elderly women with whom I shared a long table hushing one another because they didn’t want to distract me, and then (because I couldn’t keep from smiling) proceeding to distract me with all sorts of questions about what I’m writing about and how I like Buenos Aires and if I support Javier Milei and do you want to guess how old I am?
Earlier this month, I went to a protest — not the first one I’ve attended — in support of public universities in Argentina. For context, since Milei assumed the presidency in December, he has done everything in his power to make public services less affordable and accessible. The country’s public universities, which are consistently among the best educational institutions in the region, have been tuition-free for generations, a major point of pride for Argentines. In April, millions of people marched across the country amid threats of budget cuts to universities already struggling with inflation, after which the government mustered additional funding. More recently, however, Milei threatened to veto a university financing bill that passed both chambers of Congress, which brought people to the streets on October 2.
In front of Congress, I noticed a girl around my age with a determined look on her face plastering a bus shelter with black-and-white images of a crazed Javier Milei (not hard to find, since crazed is his resting state). When I interviewed her, she told me that she wasn’t only there to stand up for public universities, but for workers and retirees who were struggling under Milei’s austerity measures. She concluded by saying “el pueblo está cansado,” using a term that can refer to “the people” or the working class being tired or fed up, either way expressing a through-line of solidarity and resistance.
The fact that what’s under threat here is a tuition-free, high-quality, public university system is almost incomprehensible to the American mind. When I first arrived here, I’d be confused and a little offended by how many people would ask if I was a student, until I realized that the majority of students here continue their studies well into their 20s. Of course, many students work at the same time, and everyone has different circumstances, but the point is that they aren’t in such a crazy rush as we are in the United States to get done with college as soon as possible, but also take our time and enjoy it because it’s the best years of our lives (???).
When there’s tens of thousands of dollars on the line each semester, it suddenly becomes imperative to figure out exactly what we want to do with our lives — as I wrote recently for Jacobin, college career centers and big investment banks are more than happy to capitalize on this economic anxiety to shuffle ambitious graduates into soul-sucking yet high-paying finance jobs.3 On the other hand, it’s not that every Argentine is super relaxed about their career, but they can take their time figuring things out. Committing a semester or two to a major or program, and then deciding that it isn’t the right fit, isn’t a massive waste of money that threatens to put you behind your peers like it is at an American university. Hell, I had to think about how to optimize every single credit so that it could fit into my major or certificate or whatever, never mind that I started a master’s degree during senior year just because I could get financial aid for those credits and I just had to do it all as quickly as possible.4
Maybe most Argentines don’t think of it this way, but there’s something radical in this approach, taking classes at a relaxed pace while advancing one’s career (or just holding a job to pay rent), compared to the American experience.5 It centers the purpose of the institution of higher learning, something that is more elusive where I come from. By defending its tuition-free status, those who marched were also voicing the demand that this education stay accessible for all — as 60-year-old Juan Manuel told me at the march, “[Milei] wants education for the few who can afford it, that the rich go on to study and the rest become slaves.” Milei and his cronies have also spent the last year slandering students and waxing paranoiac about leftist indoctrination, while we’re on the subject of things that sound unfortunately familiar from a U.S. perspective.
There’s also something radical in the joy at a protest, joyous disruption. Argentines are seasoned protesters, and they have it down to a science. Vendors take advantage of the crowds, selling beer and bringing out massive grills — my friend wanted choripan, so we hunted for the best-looking sausages. Every so often, seemingly from nowhere, these raucous, effusive chants would sweep over the group I was standing in, and I’d try to follow along. I strained to hear the voice of Myriam Bregman, one of the most influential socialist politicians in the country, through the terrible sound system. My eyes and ears were wide open, reading the cardboard signs and looking for potential interviewees, but mostly just soaking it all in.
It brings me back to the tremendous moral clarity of the young people who participated in the Gaza encampments in April and May, and those who continue to protest a year into the IDF’s genocidal campaign. Grounded in solidarity and care, young people broke bread together, participated in poetry readings and art builds, and stood firm as the most powerful voices in the world intentionally mischaracterized and demonized their movement. Recently, friends at Harvard Law were banned from the school library for a “study-in” protest, as if studying in a keffiyeh or with a particular laptop sticker is a punishable offense. Meanwhile, in Argentina, Milei referred to student protesters as “golpistas,” implying that they were planning to overthrow the government by merely using their voices.6
What these students from around the world know is that we need each other. We derive immense power from community and love, and while that power often manifests as hatred of injustice and evil, it still is love at its core. Just a few days after the march for public universities, I went with another friend to a small event organized by Judíes X Palestina (Jews for Palestine) and Sandía, a collective of feminist and anti-colonialist organizations for Palestinian liberation, that had art, music, tango, photography, and other interventions. The joy in the cultural center was palpable, despite the unthinkable destruction that had brought us into that space for protest that evening, because it is that fierce, rumbling joy that fuels collective power and resistance. Because we are better when we sing together and dance together and shout and cry together and write and make art and love together, because of the joy in it, because we know that joy is what stands in front of fear and makes it hiss and sputter and cower.
Maybe even more insidious than fear is social atomization, in which every man is an island, defined by consumption habits and hyper-individualistic branding. This could probably be another essay in and of itself, but it has to do with the same types of antisocial behavior that money and toxic competitiveness breed within the American university — and, on the other side of the same coin, the ease with which we can turn down human companionship in favor of scrolling endlessly, since our algorithms know us better than a friend ever could. This atomization serves elite interests by transforming people into capital ripe for exploitation, while also discouraging the type of collective assembly and inquiry that may threaten the status quo.7 By standing together and sharing in each other’s joy and anguish and hope and tears, we reject atomization and refuse to be driven apart and siloed.
We need each other. This has never been more clear to me than now, or, at least, owing to some of my experiences over the last few months. In some ways I’m grateful that realizing the extent of my loneliness in one moment made it all the more beautiful to heal from that with the help of some friends, or listening to a bus driver laugh, or talking to people at a protest. I’m inspired by how profoundly this fact is ingrained within the culture I see around me in Buenos Aires, and by how fulfilled I feel when I lean into it earnestly.
I finally bought new earbuds three weeks ago in the duty free at the Rio de Janeiro airport after a brief vacation with some friends. I’d fallen victim to bad café playlists one too many times, and as I write this, I’m grateful that “Deep House Focus” is drowning out the lo-fi Harry Styles cover that’s playing in the background. I don’t close my eyes on the subway anymore, though. It may always be a work in progress, but I’m finding that life is richer when we let some walls down and surrender to the people around us.
Some essays that inspired me recently
This time around, I just want to share some of the essays on Substack that inspired me when writing this piece, but also in general over the last few months. My next piece will be centered around some of the books that I read this year, so stay tuned!!
On gentrification and hyper-individualism and what I refer to as atomization,
has this fantastic essay that I can’t recommend highly enough. This one from is also a really thoughtful reflection on online content creation and the pressure to be a brand.On friendship and love and earnestness, this delightful list of “the texts i send my friends” from
and a super raw and intimate slice of gay yearning fromOn why we need to get out and say yes to things and go to that party or event, “Partying As Praxis (JOKE!) (Unless...)” by
because of course. And this banger from the one and only !
see u next time xo
Although most consumer goods in Argentina are relatively cheap from a dollar perspective, electronics are one of the notable exceptions. I know plenty of American expats here who, whenever they go home for a bit, bring some Apple products upon their return to turn a little profit.
Theoretically I could have also read a Substack essay or two on my phone, but I did this less frequently. This might be ridiculous, but there was something about not having my AirPods, and therefore losing that more implicit connection to my phone through its Spotify app, that made me feel much more sheepish about using it on the bus or subte car. I read somewhere that taxi drivers between 20 years ago and now have noticed a marked decrease in conversation during rides, since so many young people use their phones as a crutch. Ever since, I’ve been super conscious of when I use it in that context (even when I make the intentional choice to take it out in an Uber because I just don’t wanna chit-chat, and feel a twinge of guilt), and hypothetically a public transit situation offers so many more chances to connect with people. Right? Not that I’m chomping at the bit to introduce myself to the person sitting next to me on the bus, but there’s something about having the option open, or at least paying enough attention to notice if there might arise a reason for me to interact with other transit-goers (perhaps this is thinking of worse-case scenarios). Or, simply, I just want to minimize the time my eyes are absorbing blue light from the rectangular doom factory.
From my conclusion: “The incentives themselves are not college graduates’ fault. Nevertheless, when many of the nation’s top universities’ most intelligent, ambitious, and hard-working graduates get funneled into Wall Street each year, their talents are wasted. The cumulative opportunity costs of each student who enters finance, instead of a career path that contributes meaningfully to social good, are staggering. Each new incoming class of entry-level finance analysts further cements the premise of wealth accumulation as an all-encompassing goal.”
What if I had taken some English or philosophy classes? Thinking back on it will make me sad, so I won’t.
It’s worth mentioning here that, because of the structure of coursework and the prevalence of studying part-time, universities here do not have the campus environment of those in the U.S. (and elsewhere). Students don’t belong to a graduating class, and while many students move to Buenos Aires for their studies, they aren’t living in residence halls with other students — furthermore, the different facultades (like colleges within a university) are housed in individual buildings scattered across the city, so someone studying medicine may never encounter someone at their university studying law or architecture.
Of course, the four-year college experience is really special, and I’m grateful for it, but it often resembles a race — some people are naturally faster than others, which is fine, but some are saddled with weights and handicaps, and some (often those without these hindrances) have a head start, and most importantly, who wins and who loses really seems to matter, even though it’s all artificial.
Notably a tactic of the fascist right wing, I might add, as recent events in the United States and Brazil demonstrated.
The disproportionate, militarized responses to recent demonstrations are also clearly in service of these elite interests. These protesters challenge deep-rooted power structures that have relied on manipulation and fear, which can only go so far as tactics on their own. In doing so, young people have showed immense courage and, more importantly, the power of collective, nonviolent action, even up against so many obstacles and bad-faith adversaries.
This was a very interesting and fresh perspective to read!
Solidarity heals