Temporary Relief

When single-sheet zines cease slinking from the printer, I stop biting my nails. With a little shuffle of feet and paper, I begin to fold and cut pages at my desk. Completing little 8-page booklets brings a small satisfaction on an otherwise unremarkable workday.

A coworker I trust stops to chat as he does every Wednesday. Among our pleasantries and jokes, I slip him a first copy of the War Tax Resistance Zine.

I’m hunched in the back corner of the library, the open layout tutoring center. Students speak in hushed foreign languages behind me. Library aids scurry between shelves. Kids in hoodies occupy plastic chairs with tired eyes and tablets.

Today, this position is a benefit. My job is little more than smiling and sharing tutor schedules. It’s easy to identify comrades and friends in the quiet hall. The first person my coworker tutors is a leader from the Climate Justice club, and I give him five copies to distribute to his board. He asks me more, eyes sparking at the possibility.

I start with 200 and leave my first shift 50 pages lighter. I don’t just wait for open hands: I drop intriguing white papers on vacant benches in the business school and art gallery on my way home. As well as I can, I avoid cameras, but other students and staff pay no mind. In fact, a few secretarial staff my age smile when I slip papers across their stations. Zine-dropping feels empowering—exciting, even!

A few months prior, War Tax Resistance was a new idea to me. First introduced as a footnote in a class on revolution, some quick research lit my heart (and wallet) on fire. Knowing that even my docile labor contributes to the war machine makes me sick. What is the medicine?

In my dorm tonight, I attend another WTR webinar with open eyes (and a VPN). As I watch the webinar, I include a zine as a gift in 35 carefully curated thank-you notes. Last month, I fundraised for a small trip to attend the Convergence to Stop Cop City. I asked my close friends and comrades for gas money, to join up with like minds in solidarity. We are learning firsthand the power of collective financial redistribution.

In the months before tax day, I’ll drop a few anywhere my daily life takes me: bathroom stalls, little free libraries, warm bus seats, gym locker rooms. I’ll get awfully close to passing all 200 through this system of handoffs and mailing. But tonight, for a moment, I pause. I can’t help but feel overwhelmed by what I’m asking of people…

There’s little within my power to stop a war. I already don’t own a car or celebrate the fourth of July. I wear badly patched pants and a hat to cover my eyes. I eat free cafeteria meals with event coupons and spend my weekends working as a bouncer. I’m just one young person.

But, more than hopelessness, more than worthlessness, I’m compelled by responsibility—that all-too familiar sensation of needing to do something. I can’t stand by and watch my government sponsor genocide anymore. For me, the sheer intrigue of this idea outweighs the stress of repercussion.

If spreading literature is what I can do, it’s what I will do.

~CML Bishop
substack.com/@punchland

[Editor’s Note: NWTRCC will be hosting a panel on additional creative forms of resistance at our conference this weekend, November 8-10, 2024. Register here.]