she sits by her fire, gently tending its flames
she glances fearfully at the setting sun, hoping the stars will be bright enough to light up the night.
Every election season, I think back to when I was five years old: the age I first became involved in American politics. From the time between Barack Obama’s nomination to his inauguration, my family undertook every effort possible to get that man elected to office, and to make sure that my siblings, my cousins, and I were along for the ride. Some of my first memories are going door to door with my family, registering neighbors to vote and encouraging them to vote for Obama, for someone who looked like us, someone who would look out for us. My first advocacy endeavor was a success. On January 20, 2009, my two brothers, cousins, and I piled onto my DeeDee’s bed to watch the first Black president of the United States take his oath of office. Meanwhile, my parents, aunt, and uncle witnessed the inauguration in person, the biting cold of mid-winter no match for the heat of their pride, of their hope. As we squirmed and complained about being forced to sit still, DeeDee sternly told me and her other grandchildren that we would thank her one day. As she left to go prepare our lunch of baked beans, hot dogs, and Lays chips I began to feel the same sense of pride my parents must have felt, as if I had played a role in this historic moment. This moment was the first spark in a bonfire of flames licking at injustice and oppression, fueled by hope and faith.
Did someone warn her the nation is made of firefighters?
Throughout middle and elementary school, I eagerly awaited the day that I would be able to make a difference with my own voice, feeling as though casting a ballot was the most coveted way I could do so. Until I had the right to vote, I focused my efforts on advocacy, attending and planning protests, signing petitions, and writing emails to my representatives. I believed deep in my heart that my voice mattered, that my actions would push this country closer to equality. Aware of the many injustices that those in my community experienced I felt that I, and others in my generation, were in a position to uproot the angry tree of oppression and hatred. Our society would be free from its poison. But we would not stop there, the privileges and freedoms that come with being an American would allow us to use our voices and our power to advocate for those in other countries. We would extinguish injustice on all corners of the earth.
I soon awakened to reality. I went marching in D.C. after Trayvon Martin was killed in 2012 to advocate for an end to police brutality. So why was I still marching in 2020 after the death of George Floyd? I signed petitions and called my representatives to advocate for gun control laws after the Parkland shooting in 2017. So why have I found myself in lockdown during a shooting at my own school? It's true what they say: change doesn't happen overnight. But fighting continuously for the right to equality and dignity, as my grandparents and great grandparents did, simply made me feel as though true justice would never come. As I witnessed injustice after injustice in my communities and across the country despite ceaseless resistance, the refusal of elected officials to take action seemed to be a hand delivered note telling me this anguish was simply the American way of life. The little voice in my heart telling me I could make a difference started to get hoarse. It dawned on me that the country I call my home is complicit in the oppression of its own people, and numerous peoples abroad. Tales of equity and equality seemed to be deception. These lies were meant to placate that bright-eyed child, foolish to believe that the same people who run the country built on the backs of her ancestors would offer me an ounce of freedom. I live, not simply in a cornucopia of opportunity, but in a powerhouse of oppression, injustice, and destruction. I hear the leaders of this nation snicker at each other as they vow to protect us. Their hearts full of greed, they see my idealistic thinking as nothing but a joke.
How does one keep a fire burning when their kindling is stolen?
A few weeks ago, I was finally able to exercise my right to vote for the president of this “great” nation. Great for who?
I remembered my younger self. How eager she would have been, racing head over heels to the polls to not only vote in her first presidential election, but to vote for the first Black, female president of the United States. Nostalgic excitement was dampened by despair. My heart clenched as I filled out Kamala Harris’s name. The other option meant a threat to my individual rights, but regardless I would be voting for an office that seems to necessitate the oppression of so many others. Injustice stretches from sea to shining sea, and extends far beyond this land made for you and me. I check the news time and time again to see images of foreign lands ravaged by United States bombs. I shudder as I look down at the hands of my country, and see blood dripping from their fingertips. And how can all this be under the guise of protecting freedom at home, and of protecting democracy? I wonder what freedom means to those who utter it so freely, to those who do everything so freely.
It seems as though the bonfire has been reduced to just a small spark. In desperation, I’ve grasped at an answer, at a reason to keep believing when it seems so hopeless. Long walks with too many thoughts bouncing through my head. Yes, progress has been made, only for the oppressor to get more creative in executing what they do so well. How long will it take to create a just society? It’s so easy for those who don’t suffer to ignore reality. The seeds of this country were planted on land stolen from indigenous peoples, the struggles of their ancestors ignored. Is it possible to reform such a government whose inception is rooted in oppression? An answer still eludes my finger tips. So, I believe I will stop grasping at one, and hold close instead what I know to be true: the power of this nation may rely on the oppression of others, but my power is all my own. As I was reminded through a phone call with my mom, no one can steal this heirloom, these inner workings of our beings. Her power was her own when she held my hand as we campaigned for Obama. It was her own as she watched him take his oath of office, knowing her children were safe and warm with her mother, my DeeDee. I know now, to thank her for teaching us a new definition of freedom. We are free to use our voices, to educate ourselves, to fight, and to do it together. Sometimes the way forward is unclear, but it is always certain that we can move forward. Even with just a spark a fire can grow, and it will rage on.
stars twinkle with memories from the past,
a reminder that if the night lasted forever, there would still be light
