Let me take you to church. I got a sermon.

Here is my message of hope:

I woke up today and the sun was shining. The dog and the cat were playing tag in the backyard. The birds were all fighting for mates, their adorably loud courting rituals. Looking for love. Amen, chickadees.

Butterflies will be back from Mexico soon. I’ll ask them about their journey. How was the elote con sal y limón?

I know that there is a cabal of men a few miles as the crow flies from my little suburban Virginia home. A sinister group who thinks they are surely doing the right thing.

They are dead-set on consecrating policy that puts my health, my life, the rights of my people, my one third of Americans who’ve been tapped on the shoulder by illness, in dire straits. My people, the immigrants who are the nation’s fountain of youth. Bringers of renewal, progress, discovery, enterprise. The new blood keeping our country alive and thriving. My people, the backbone strong enough to endure the weight of so much subjugation and still hold up the world. Women.

But here is the secret I know. Women have been fighting this fight since back in the cave. Put under yoke by men terrified of our god-like powers. We regenerate the world; fill the it with new life. Nurture and feed it at our breasts. Mother it. Shape it. The future is always ours to create.

So the struggle is real. And we are real good at the struggle.

I, just like a woman, will keep working. My labor is my fight. My best weapons the people I touch everyday. Convincing them of my worth, my humanity. Don’t tell. Do.

My child will carry an understanding of justice. The courage to stand in dissent. Strong arms and legs and mind. He’ll be here still. After I’m gone.

So don’t you worry. The time of these frail white men is short and the struggle is long. And we are always renewing our strength, always young, training up the brains and bodies that will continue the work.

I’m going to stand outside my church and listen to Graceland on my headphones. Next to god but not in him. Talk to my dead father about this wild world. My mark on this planet is in the making and won’t be erased. I’ll live and die on my terms, assholes.


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