Upon stumbling, by chance, upon a man, waist-deep in quicksand, I need a second to process. After all, this is fiction made flesh; it’s like going to the zoo and seeing a mermaid. So my first response, naturally, is to tell him:

Hey, um, I’m pretty sure that I read somewhere that quicksand isn’t actually dangerous, that this idea of a patch of sandy water sucking a person down into oblivion is just a tall tale, a trope to build tension in early 1960s westerns. In real life, yeah, I mean, you can get caught in quicksand, but it’s not really that hard to get out. So are you sure you’re sinking in quicksand?

He sinks.

My words don’t seem to have any effect. So being an open-minded, progressive individual, I reevaluate. Maybe quicksand is real. So what now? My second response upon stumbling, by chance, upon a man, chest deep in quicksand is, before I actually do anything, to make sure that I have the whole picture. I mean, what was this guy doing out here in the jungle all alone? Did he step into that quicksand on purpose? Was he asking for it? Does he have a criminal record? Maybe I should wait until all the facts come in.

He sinks.

And again, being an open-minded, progressive individual, I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt, at least for now. I want to help

So my third response upon stumbling, by chance, upon a man, neck deep in quicksand is to, obviously, recite a poem. To throw some spirit energy his way. To describe, out loud, just how heavy my heart is. I take a piece of paper out of my backpack, and with a pen, I write “quicksand is bad and I am an ally to people who fall in it.” I pin that piece of paper to my chest. I take out my phone and I tweet “when are we going to wake up? #quicksand.”

He sinks.

And being an open-minded, progressive individual, I decide that this isn’t enough, that we, as a society, need to address the root causes of people sinking in quicksand. So my fourth response upon stumbling, by chance, upon a man, forehead-deep in quicksand, is to take a moment and really acknowledge and think about my privilege as someone who is not sinking in quicksand. I vow to take a class, to challenge my friends when they make quicksand-related jokes, to be more mindful of how I navigate the world.

He sinks.

And being an open-minded, progressive individual, I decide that the time for words has passed; now is the time for action. So my fifth response upon stumbling, by chance, upon a man, disappeared into quicksand, is… is…

We can’t allow ourselves to forget what happened here. I know we need to do something, to put up a sign, to educate people, to build a bridge over this patch of quicksand. I just don’t have any wood. I just have this backpack full of paper and pens and rope; what can one person do?


I imagine my lungs filling with mud. Black earth. Brown water. The hike back to my hotel will be full of reflection. I say a prayer under my breath. It’s the least I can do.