There is a grief that precedes tragedy, when loss is on the horizon. But there are people whose work, by design, embraces loss. I wanted to lean on the words of one such person today, as we contemplate the uncertainty ahead. Heather is a mentally ill artist and a reiki practitioner. She is also a former sex worker and a death midwife. We have worked together and written together, and today, I am grateful to share one of her reflections.
One of my hospice patients is actively dying. When I arrived for my visit yesterday there was a chaplain with her, I think he was surprised that I was a hospice volunteer with my high heeled boots, faux fur coat, and bright red hair. But I dress up for these visits because the residents love sequins, glitter, fake fur. When I walk through the halls they pet me like a cat. And I think for those who have a hard time remembering, these things help keep me memorable. Janice does not remember me most of the time, but the first thing she always says to me is, “You have red hair.” I had touched up my hair that morning with this in mind.
In my hospice training and death midwife course I learned what the signs are that someone is actively dying. It is different to write these things down in a notebook than it is to experience them. I sit next to her and stroke her forehead, she is almost bald but what hair she still has is brushed to the side and fastened with a pin. Her head is feverish but her hands are cold and bruise-colored. I polished her nails around Halloween, some chipped blue still remains. She lays perfectly still and then intermittently trembles and balls her fists, surprisingly strong. There is a rattle in her throat that seems disconnected from her breathing. I wonder at all the involuntary things our bodies do, the struggle between that energy that has always been here will always be here and the vehicle where it is currently trapped.
I stay with her for as long as I can, passing the time by looking around her room. She has two roommates. One has some artwork with her name written in glitter on a shamrock. Her bedside dresser is covered in beanie babies, snow globes, and those ceramic figures of bonneted girls that were really popular around the time I was born. The other dresser is almost completely empty. There is an old black and white photo of a couple on their wedding day. People’s faces look different now. Men don’t have those heavy-lidded eyes, women don’t have those healthy round faces. Or maybe it’s just the black and white that makes them seem otherworldly. There is a cross hanging over her bed. I think about all of the things I have and imagine trying to decide which few things I would take with me if I had to go live in a room with two strangers against my will. I couldn’t imagine what I would bring, I couldn’t imagine that happening to me.
Then I remember it already happened when I was put in the mental hospital in 4th grade.
Maybe that’s why none of this is as upsetting to me as I feel like it should be.
As I am leaving I kiss her on the forehead knowing I may never see her again. I wish I could stay longer. I wish I had more time.
On my way out I run into a resident who is not one of my hospice patients but who likes to pet my clothes. She is wearing mittens which means she was probably trying to scratch one of the nurses. I’ve been warned to be careful around her because she bites. I love her.
“I remember you” she says. “I was there the day you were born,” she says and claps her hands together, the sound muffled by her mittens. I say goodbye and she keeps clapping. “I’ve been here forever,” she calls after me. “I’ve been here forever.”
What does it mean to stand at the precipice of human failure — a failure so profound that it threatens to both tear humanity into oblivion, and drag all life on earth down with us? What does hope look like, in the face of such potential disaster, and what does it look like when all available math tells us that the disasters we all fear are already underway? With Trump about to take office, so many shades and shapes of human suffering feel inevitable, and anyone who is keeping up with the math of climate change is likely, and quite understandably, discouraged. So what does hope look like, as we step into a new year?
For me, it looks like my friends, huddled around fires in Standing Rock, surviving the bitterness of a North Dakota winter so that our people may live. It looks like hundreds of nations of our people, travelling thousands of miles, and in some cases, overcoming centuries old blood feuds, to stop a pipeline. Energy Transfer Partners promised those invested in the Dakota Access Pipeline by January 1, and there won’t be. That’s what what hope looks like, to me, as I ready myself to kick nearly everything else about this year to the curb.
In some ways, Native peoples and allies who are still holding it down in Standing Rock are representative of what marginalized people are experiencing around the country. After the election, we all felt a storm setting in, and while most of us aren’t literally laboring against the elements to sustain our bodies and resistance, many of us are huddling together for warmth, contemplating what it’s going to take to survive.
As we look forward, beyond the false fixes of a waning administration, toward the uncertain road ahead, I have no illusions about how ugly things might get, but I also have hope. During the last week, I witnessed on odd sort of backlash against hope on social media. When people would speak optimistically about the new year, they would often be met with the slingshot cynicism of people who are fixed in their own pessimism. People were actually insulting the intelligence and awareness of people for naming one of the most fundamental hopes we all experience with time: That maybe this year will be better than the last.
Is a hard rain gonna fall? Absolutely. Is the planet itself at stake, with climate change hurtling toward a point of no return, and (to put it mildly) a mercurial reality TV star in office? Yes. We are staring down mass deportations, escalating state violence (on all fronts, including the violence of mass incarceration), and the absolute edge of extinction, but here’s the thing: We are still here. We are still strong and creative, and many of us come from peoples who have survived what most can’t imagine. We have each other, and in our unity, in our resistance, there is always hope.
In the not-too-distant future, the hope that real resistance brings may be the only hope that matters. And I’m not talking about the hope that comes with sharing an important article, or the hope that knowing determined people can bring. I’m talking about the hope that comes with truly joining, or continuing to throw down, with the resistance, in whatever way we’re able.
As we stand on this precipice, faced with a climatic battle for all life — and for the very idea of freedom — we shouldn’t downplay what we’re up against. But it’s equally important that we not diminish ourselves. Every moment of our lives as oppressed people, and as organizers, and every moment of struggle since first contact, when the violence of colonialism reached our shores, has led to this one, just as this moment will lead to the next. And what comes next can only be predicted, and as 2016 has shown us, predictions do not define reality.
I do understand cynicism. For years, I draped myself in pessimism and skepticism, because it was easier than having hope. Being skeptical rarely blows up in one’s face. Hope, on the other hand, can fly high, full of promise, and then spiral to the ground in flames (amid the background noise of I-told-you-so’s).
Cynicism is emotionally stagnant, and therefore, emotionally safer, but it is also self fulfilling, and rarely yields anything beautiful.
I understand being deeply pessimistic about the prospect of grassroots resistance clashing with a militarized surveillance state. And I understand being convinced, due to the staggering math of climate change, that nothing we do now matters. I recognize people’s misgivings, but I also believe that humanity’s potential isn’t restricted to its shadow side. So much is possible, and it’s okay to be in love with possibility, and to fight for that love as though the whole world depends on it — because it does.
My work is sustained by love and hope, and I understand that, for some people, hope is a significant challenge. Sometimes, it is for me as well. Giving up and just living out this life of mine, as comfortably as I can manage, is a thought that’s flashed through my mind more than once this year, and honestly, that’s never happened before. From the moment I got involved in movement work, years ago, I have never doubted what I needed to be doing with my life. But this year, pain, longing and frustration have, at times, left me kicking around the notion of some simpler happiness — even on the edge of oblivion.
But that’s not what it’s going to take for all of us to make it through what’s coming, and it’s not who I want to be in this world, in my community, at this moment in history. I want to be who I am — a person living in rebellion against what’s killing and crushing us.
I resisted my aforementioned urges to hurl myself toward some easy out, and I know many others will as well. Because while hope can be difficult, nothing will change for the better without it, and we all know in our hearts that if we are to survive, everything must change. If it doesn’t, there’s nowhere to go but down. And standing on the edge of catastrophe, I want no part of that chasm.
But here’s the good news: Human potential runs in more than one direction. For all the complex harm we’ve caused, we remain creative. We remain defiant. What has been built by human hands can be dismantled by human hands, and there are beautiful examples, throughout history, of things we’ve built that are worth living and fighting for.
And as for what must be ended: There are failings and weaknesses embedded in the walls of this system, and as history has shown us, walls can fall down.
Hope is renewable, but if you don’t have it now, that’s okay. Just be sure to take the hand of someone who does. We can be here for each other, and together we can figure out what to hold onto, what to let go of, and what we needs to be torn apart. Together, we can figure out what to build, and how.
I won’t say I don’t find the new year daunting. I do. I have been very quick to tears lately and I can’t decide if it’s because I am mourning what I lost in 2016, or if I am somehow preemptively grieving the losses to come. Whatever it is, I know I need to vent it out before it morphs into despair — the best weapon of our enemies. And I know that, in spite of my tears, I will move forward, knowing that my hopes won’t always deliver, and that I will at times resent them for having failed me, but that they are nonetheless worth having. The truth is, hope can be a bitch, but saving ourselves, and each other, will take more determination than we could ever conjure without it.
So in these last words I write to you all, at the end of this wretched year, I want to say this:
We can make it, friends. But we aren’t going to save ourselves or the earth serendipitously. To survive, and to get free, we will have to carve out the will to believe in ourselves and in each other, and we will have to put one foot in front of the other.
We, as human beings, like to sort things. It’s more than liking, really. We need to sort things, to order them, to think we understand events and our ever-evolving relationships with them. It is human — that need to name why we felt a thing, who made us feel it and when.
It is human to need to know when we felt was a reaction to what was, and when it became, for better or worse, part of some frustratingly non linear experience of grief and healing. Or conversely, to identify an era in which things changed for the better, or when we lived out some beautiful period of joy or transformation.
So, in 2016, we have named the year as our enemy. It honestly feels quite strange to me that there is an actual social media backlash against “blaming a damn year,” but I get it. I get all of it. I understand putting a spent calendar in a box, and leaving it by the side of the road, cursing it as you drive away, and I also get why some might find that silly. It is a little silly, but in these times, I am increasingly unabashed about the silly things that help sustain me.
No, the natural, illness-oriented and politically wicked forces that wreaked havoc in 2016 will not vanish at midnight on New Year’s Eve, but we will start a new session of sorting our troubles. We will have fresh pages to write under a new heading. Like a birthday, January 1 will mark no immediate transition, and no separation with the forces that governed the previous year, but it is nonetheless a mark of having survived — and may carry with it the hope that this particular lap around the sun might play out better than the last.
Perhaps it won’t be any better. Amid climate change, the rise of Trump and the existence of Lena Dunham, it’s possible that humanity has truly joined the dark side, and that the rebel resistance will come to no good end. But I’ve always been a little silly, and I believe in rebellions. I attach myself, unapologetically, to fantastic narratives of hope and while I am fully aware of the shadow side of human potential, I also believe in the creativity and courage of oppressed peoples. So I am holding out hope, with great discipline, on the cusp of a new year that admittedly appears ready to explode.
But whether the coming year is rigged with explosives or not, I will move forward thinking of all that we can do to save ourselves, and each other, and to create beautiful moments, unique to their parcel of time — moments that sustain us amid the rest of it.
So are we silly to blame a year? Sure. This is the internet. We say lots of silly things. I could be wrong, but I don’t think “blaming 2016” is making anyone less aware of the illnesses that have killed our faves, or the political, environmental or economic tumult we face. While awareness of those things might not be as high as we would prefer, it’s not as though we were on track to be fully aware, and were derailed by a goofy coping mechanism. Not everything can be a doom and gloom analysis. The internet has a lot of that too. I read a great deal of it. And sometimes we need a break.
We need gifs from our favorite sitcoms, memes that express our annoyance and sometimes, we need to scapegoat an entire year. It may be absurd, but so is being human and feeling the world, such as it is. One of the reasons I cherished Carrie Fisher, who the world lost on Tuesday, was that she understood that, sometimes, you need to know how to laugh at what’s trying to kill you. I read Fisher’s novel “Postcards From the Edge” over a decade ago, as I tried to stave off the nausea of heroin withdrawal, in a Chicago psych ward. Laughing as much as I could, without becoming physically ill, while twitching, kicking and whining in my bed, didn’t make me any less aware of my situation. It meant I was surviving it. And cursing 2016 for taking Fisher didn’t mean that I thought the calendar year, rather than cardiac arrest, had killed her. Sometimes, you just need something to shake your fist at, even if that fist shaking is nothing but the punchline of a sad joke.
Sometimes life feels like a sad joke, and there’s nothing wrong with expressing that.
As people surviving a society that’s actually destroying the planet it inhabits, I think we need to know when to allow for the absurd. In fact, I think there comes a point where critiquing the absurd becomes an even sillier act than the one being called into question. But such is the spiral of angst in a shitty year.
This is a complicated moment for many with anti-interventionist politics. Do I feel differently about US military intervention in Syria than I did when I spoke up for the first time against US involvement? No. Do I carry the weight of knowing that none of us can ever be certain of anything, and that people are dying horribly right now? Yes. I do feel that weight, and I think that’s appropriate.
Reports coming out of Aleppo indicate that the city’s remaining medical practitioners are being slaughtered — if they are not dead already — and that entire families are being executed, both in the streets and in their own homes, as others voice on social media that amid the approaching sounds of explosions, they expect to be dead soon.
Only a few years ago, I stood in front of a crowd and spoke to why I did not think we should engage, militarily, with what was happening in Syria. I remember what I said — what many of us said — and I believe it no less now as it now rings in my ears alongside the words of those facing unthinkable violence in Aleppo. I still believe it because I think we must make decisions that are guided by what we know about systems and the outcomes they bring. Millions of people are dead because of the interventionist warfare that has played out over the past two administrations. Even when named as humanitarian, US military interventions are grounded in imperialism, and we know what bloody nightmares that imperialism brings.
The severity of an atrocity does does not change the reality of our practices, with regard to intervention and endless war.
That is not to say that the world has not failed Syria. We most assuredly have. But failure takes many shapes, and I do not believe that failing to throw bombs at a complex social and political problem was one of them. But I acknowledge that many feel we should have intervened militarily on their behalf, and I feel their anger and grief deeply. I feel that I should.
But I am also painfully aware of the ways in which we did participate. Through leaked diplomatic cables, we know that the United States government not only worked to destabilize the Syrian government, with an eye toward regime change, but actively encouraged sectarianism to fuel those efforts. As Robert Naiman wrote in The WikiLeaks Files, “It was easy to predict then that, while a strategy of promoting sectarian conflict in Syria might indeed help undermine the Syrian government, it could also help destroy Syrian society.”
The CIA’s bungled efforts to affect matters on the ground — where militants armed by the Pentagon actually wound up fighting groups armed by the CIA — are an excellent reflection of how clueless the United States has been with regard to this conflict. As a country, we didn’t know how to coax a better outcome, from a military standpoint, and more firepower wouldn’t have changed that. When a country has no working strategy, no concept of how to align itself with a just and strategic outcome, adding more explosions is not a fix.
That said, I believe in assuming the weight of our positions, because some decisions are heavy, whether we’re right or wrong. And I will never assume that I am above mistakes and missteps, especially in matters affecting the safety and freedom of others. So while I hold to my beliefs today, in grief for what we are witnessing from afar, those beliefs do feel heavy in my heart and in my hands.
The story of what has happened, and what is happening in Syria is complicated, and I am definitely not best suited to tell it, but there are many, many ways in which the systems we oppose laid the groundwork for all of this, and compounded the struggles of those most impacted. So when we talk about how we failed Syria, and what we can do now — as well we should — let’s remember to dig deep and not act as though our only moments of truth are about whether or not to pull a trigger.
All of that said, I believe that as people who love justice, we have a duty to bear witness, and I will continue to do so. Social media has created a means for some people to be heard in what may be their last hours, and I will hear them. I hope many of you will do the same, and that we will echo the truth of their experiences in whatever ways we can. We must honor their truth and the truth of this moment, now and always — while doing whatever we can to help.
To all who are impacted by these atrocities, I extend my love and solidarity, for whatever it is worth in this moment.
Final message – I am very sad no one is helping us in this world, no one is evacuating me & my daughter. Goodbye.- Fatemah #Aleppo
It’s not surprising that Energy Transfer Partners would want the Dakota Access Pipeline to seem like a done deal on all fronts but the contested easement in North Dakota. But I received the following information today from a trusted source who has surveilled and documented DAPL work sites in Illinois, and confirmed that construction in Illinois is not nearly so complete as Energy Transfer Partners would like us to believe.
Communique from Rozalinda Borcila, December 9, 2016
Location: West of the town of Shobonier IL, where County Road 900 N crosses the Kaskaskia River
This is an active DAPL construction site at the crossing of the Kaskaskia River. Energy Transfer Partners obtained permits from the Army Corps of Engineers for crossing waterways though Horizontal Direct Drilling at three sites in Illinois that are under Army Corps jurisdiction. At this site, pieces of the pipe are being lined up and positioned in preparation for being pulled under the river — the staging area is just West of the location at which the pipe will be inserted under the ground. The pipe can be seen in the detail shot. All four roads accessing the site are closed. The site is heavily monitored by private security as well as plain clothed police officers in unmarked cars. In this portion of the pipeline route, we were able to see state police and well as sheriffs posted at construction access roads, offering protection and security services to Energy Transfer Partners and Precision Pipeline.
We were stopped by a convoy of 5 police vehicles (three of which were unmarked) while driving on a public county road not far from this location. The plain clothed officer who came to our car did not immediately identify himself; the first thing he showed us was his gun. He informed us we looked suspicious because in a rural area everyone knows everyone and we were in a place we weren’t supposed to be. We informed him we were on a county road; another officer notified us we had been seen earlier in the day “trespassing.” I can only assume he was referring to our activities more than 20 miles away on another stretch of the pipeline route, where we were also driving on county roads.
The entire time, we followed the construction signs of Precision PipeLine company, the contractor building the pipeline. These signs are posted publicly at intersections within a mile or so radius of many of the construction sites.
Since October, Energy Transfer Partners have repeatedly stated that construction in Illinois is mostly complete. They have been lying. At the Kaskaskia River, the pipe was not in the ground as of December 9. There are numerous sites near at which there is surface work that remains to be done: stabilizing the fill-in areas, grading and leveling. There are also active construction sites at the location of over a dozen valves (this involves setting up fencing around the valves, securing satellite connections, lights and sensor equipment without which the valves cannot be operational). Almost all of the sites we visited that were near a creek or small water crossing were still under construction, although most of these are done through the open cut method and do not require the extensive time of an HDD process.
On Monday, November 28, 2016, an evacuation order was issued by the governor of the North Dakota, calling for the end of the largest convergence of Native resisters in modern times. That convergence, known on social media as #NoDAPL and often simply referred to as “Standing Rock” — a place whose history and legacy have now been permanently expanded to encompass this moment in time — has existed in defiance of colonial violence for months now. It is a convergence that has been assailed and slandered in news reports that take the word of law enforcement as gospel, despite the factual evidence that law enforcement has a chronic tendency to dehumanize and kill us. That tendency is the story of our existence since first contact. So is the resistance with which it has been met. Now multiple levels of government are once again acting in concert to write their preferred ending to another chapter of that story.
In essence, the “emergency evacuation” order from Gov. Jack Dalrymple echoes the recently feigned concerns of the Army Corps of Engineers, stating that the area’s plunging temperatures and heavy snowfall pose an unacceptable safety hazard to the Water Protectors. (Such concerns for our people’s warmth were notably lacking when law enforcement blasted Protectors with water cannons in sub-zero temperatures.) The details and language of those orders can be read elsewhere, but I will tell you, unequivocally, what the public must understand about them: These proclamations have nothing to do with Native safety or survival. Our well-being has never been a priority within these United States. If it were, we would not live as we live and die as we die. We would not be killed at a higher rate by police than any other group. We would not have been subjected to such violence on the frontlines of Standing Rock or any other site of Native resistance. Every rubber bullet that has struck Native flesh, every blast of freezing water that has battered Indigenous bodies at skin-ripping velocities and every cloud of tear gas — everything you’ve seen retells the story of how little they care about our survival. Our people having been facing a brutal storm in Standing Rock for some time now. The notion that some threat of death and suffering is now officially relevant, now that it’s posed by nature as opposed to law enforcement’s tools of torture and repression, is an insult to us all — including each of you. The truth could not be plainer. The path of the pipeline (redirected from a 90 percent white community’s backyard), the repression and the constant threat of an all-out siege are more evidence than anyone should need, for they are merely part of a larger pattern of evidence. The Army Corps made its recent statement as a PR maneuver. By issuing an eviction date, even without the threat of force, it has skirted any liability for whatever law enforcement does next. The Army Corps declared December 5 the day on which our people will be deemed intruders on the stolen land the Corps governs. Like the governor, the Corps was sure to couch its decision in feigned concern for our people. The position it made clear was as simple as it was spineless: If our people freeze, we’ll have no one to blame but ourselves, because we were warned. And if our people are further barbarized by law enforcement, it will have been by our own choice, because we were given fair warning. After a full day of public outcry, the Army Corps clarified that it had no specific plans for the removal of our Water Protectors. Its statement was more of a proclamation justifying any ugly consequences of resisting yet another displacement.
As Native people, we know this refrain. It is in fact the mechanism by which this government has always sought to manage the Indigenous people who its extermination efforts failed to wipe from the continent. After every mass murder and every geographical reshuffling, the same cycle has repeated itself. Our people are forced to accept false boundaries and containment, or assimilation, because we are offered no other choice. We are pushed into spaces that are not seen as limiting expansion — until those lands or waters are found to have significant value. When the prospect of wealth is detected, those lands and waters are also looted, leaving disease and devastation in the wake of still more violence against both land and human beings. These systems of colonialism must be understood. Oppressions replicate themselves, throughout history and throughout societies, until they consume targets well beyond those they were constructed to control or destroy. We see this in the gentrification that destroys both Black and Brown communities. We see this in the reshaping of slavery, which also consumes Native lives through the prison-industrial complex — despite that structure being erected, such as it exists, to uphold the social and economic functionality of anti-Blackness. The United States, as a nation-state, is as diseased now as the smallpox-ridden blankets that were handed to us so many years ago. It is an irony not lost on us that this government once again masks its attacks as efforts to keep us from the cold — to preserve us with a false regard that reeks of death. But we see what lies ahead. In my own imagination, from so many miles away, I can see the barricades that could soon prevent firewood and life-giving food from reaching my people. I can see a government impatiently attempting to freeze and starve out our resisters, for their “own good.“ I see them waiting until they believe that all those left standing are weak and ill-prepared for an onslaught. I see them shutting down our ability to view that siege from a distance. But I do not see us defeated. The truth is, this government has yet to defeat us. We have survived, battle to battle, from one patch of land to another. We are the blood of what couldn’t be killed, and the heart of our resistance now beats in Standing Rock. And it will continue to strengthen us all.
UPDATE: North Dakota officials have announced that police will stop anyone attempting to bring camping supplies — including food and firewood — to the Oceti Sakowin Camp, and inform them that they may be fined up to $1000 if they attempt to deliver the items.
I write these words on what’s a cold night in my city, and a much colder night where my heart is — with my friends in Standing Rock. My writing, which typically centers movements, often sways between news and analysis. My coverage of #NoDAPL has been no exception. But this piece is neither news nor analysis, because these words are for you, my people, for our Protectors and resistors — for those who aren’t seeking to be heroes, but who are nonetheless members of heroic movements and communities.
To you I write these words, on the night the governor of North Dakota has issued you an eviction notice, like so many notices issued to so many displaced people. One of the ironic distinctions of course, is that marginalized people are usually pushed out into the cold by eviction, whereas you are being threatened with rescue, due to your own decision to face the elements. While that menace has thus far masked itself in concern, we know better, and what stage is likely being set — one of forcible removal, consistent with the history of colonialism.
I hope people see your determination and know that future isn’t set. Knowing that myself, I am not mourning today’s news, as I am sure you wouldn’t want me to. We know despair heals nothing, builds nothing, and further empowers our enemies. We live in a disciplined state of hope, and have done so for centuries. I didn’t always understand what that meant for me or my own freedom, but I do now, and I feel it more deeply because of you. We all take joy and comfort where we can, but my whole heart is with you tonight. Whether you are afraid or not, whether you are staying or not. I know a good many of you will hold the space you’ve grounded yourself in, and that on every front, this struggle will continue. I know we are not stifled by their proclamations. I am grateful to you all — those who will stay, those who feel they must leave, and those who made that space a home for as long as they could. There is something revitalized in the air we breathe because of you. In this moment, I believe in us as I never have, not because I didn’t believe in our potential, but because I had only witnessed snapshots of its expression.
I have not been alone in my years of resistance, but I have never felt so far from loneliness in what it means to struggle as a Native person — even as an “urban NdN,” because I believe we have found something there too — a connection of the dots in our collective constellation, and in some moments, where those lights branch elsewhere.
I believe in us, and that we are ready, more so than I have ever envisioned, to rise up against every threat to our survival and self determination. We have survived the rise of a nation state — a “super power” — grounded in our genocide. This country, built on death and human bondage, has not extinguished the lives it meant to snuff out, nor fully subverted the lives it has strived to control. It has accomplished much towards these ends, but our ancestors have risen, time after time, to prove what we are made of.
We have survived this nation state’s will for us because we are a fire that their water cannons cannot extinguish.
I am so many miles away from you tonight, but I feel your fire, burning in the freezing cold, in a place I’ve visited, but have not managed to live. You have fed that fire with every hour you have held that space. I know you’re not done yet, but I want you to know that your victories have come in stages, all building to this moment, and whatever trial or climax comes next. I want you to know that you have moved us and will continue to move us, bringing us closer to the united front we must form, with ourselves and with those pushing against every other pillar of white supremacy.
I am here for you and this. My disability and responsibilities keep me from joining you in that cold, beautiful heart of resistance that your blood — the blood of what couldn’t be killed — has kept beating. But I am living in this moment with you so that our peoples may live, and until we all get free. I will live for that, now and always, until we uproot every pipe they try to lay through our land, until we halt their violence and empty their cages. I want you to know, and have to tell you, that I will live for you, for us, and our co-strugglers, until we are living our freedom dreams — whether I live to see that day or not — and that in this moment, you give me life.