They say, this is how it’s always been.
As if history is a straight line,
as if we were never climbing,
never reaching for something better,
never becoming.
But I remember.
I remember when we were building,
when the doors were opening,
when voices long silenced found their way to the mic,
when love—real love—was no longer whispered in the dark.
I remember when justice wasn’t just a dream,
when movements weren’t just moments,
when unity wasn’t just a word politicians spat out like loose change.
We were becoming.
Not perfect, no—never perfect.
But we were mending what was broken,
stitching together a country frayed at the edges,
pulling up seats to tables where none had been set before.
And then, they came.
Louder than before, angrier than before,
with flags turned to weapons,
with books turned to ashes,
with policies dressed up as progress but stitched with fear.
They rewrote the past to erase the becoming,
rewrote the laws to chain the future,
took power and called it patriotism,
took rights and called it righteousness.
And the people—oh, the people—
some clung to the illusion,
some watched in horror,
some whispered, but we were so close…
Yes. We were close.
Closer than we’d ever been to the America they swore could never exist.
An America where difference was not a death sentence,
where skin did not always determine safety,
where love did not require an apology,
where justice meant more than just survival.
And yet, here we are.
But let me tell you this—
this backslide, this storm, this moment—
it is not the end.
Because we have seen what’s possible,
tasted what’s possible,
stood in the light of what’s possible,
and we will not let them drag us back into their darkness.
We are still becoming.
And no amount of flags,
or bans,
or bullets,
or laws wrapped in hate
will stop us from remembering what we were building.
No amount of fear
will stop us from finishing
what we started.
