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They Want Us Quiet

They want us quiet.
Don’t be quiet

 

 

(Warning: swearing ahead.)

I haven’t the slightest clue what to write. 
 
I refresh The Twitter over and over and over and over, tracking the terror and tumult, filled with heartache and fury and also an undercurrent of hope.
 
It’s a mess right now out there in this country of ours.

It’s been a mess for a long, long time.

It’s been a mess since the very beginning, actually, this country built on a field of blood, formed from poetry and policy that promised things pretty much only for the white men. 
 
Was it some collective trance? Besides those enslaved and silenced, was everyone else cheering from the sidelines, just A-okay with the birth of a nation leaving them entirely out of ownership, governance, independence, power? Or were they muttering from the sidelines, this is still some fucked up shit.
 
I saw a tweet saying 2020 from here on will be synonymous with a crazy-ass time, like, Last night was 2020. My kids were straight-up 2020 all weekend. 
 
But hasn’t shit been 2020 from the start? 
 
Haven’t we heard things like this all along?:

You (Black people) aren’t human, and you (women) are property, and you (children) are labor, punching bags, and sex toys and you (Indigenous) take this crappy ½ acre of land from everything we stole and go figure out how to provide for yourself with no support, say, or protection, and you (immigrants) are the laborers we want scrappy and scared and subservient but also cheerful and grateful, and you (LGBQ+) hide who you are and live a lie and you (non-binary, trans), you aren’t real. And any of y’all step out of line, you’re dead.
 
People say, it’s time for change. 
 
Yes. 
 
And Wut? I mean, can’t we all agree that CHANGE IS WAY OVERDUE?
 
I’m here for it.

I’m here for the change. I’m here for the chaos, the dismantling of systems of oppression and violence, for the toppling of statues, the rewriting of our history to include stories that have been hidden, ignored, distorted, undermined, mis-attributed.
 
I’m here for the radical self-examination, for waking up and owning the story of racism and white supremacy and patriarchy and colonialism and capitalism and wrestling with what true reconstruction and reparation looks like. 
 
I don’t have any answers.
 
This is a becoming time, an emptying out time, a filling up time.
 
As I grieve and vent and cheer and donate, I feel a surge of energy, a fiery, creative, terrified, hopeful energy.
 
There is hope in this chaos. There is hope in this pain. There is hope in this sea of injustice. 
 
Whatever you are doing these days, whether it’s marching, calling, reading, sewing, organizing, sleeping, recalibrating, healing, petitioning, running for office or donating to one of the many, many incredibly important races across this country, make sure to prioritize your path to hope.
 
To the messy, raw, hot, terrified, furious, tender hope that lives in your heart and feeds your soul. 
 
We need it, Dear Reader, because we need you–the true, complicated, evolving you. 
 
 Sending so much love.
 

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