I am not a legend, or a preacher, or a voice for the terrible injustices of the world, though I wish so desperately I could be. I am only a voice for me. My generation is at war and oppression is the breakfast fed to the soldiers and I wake up and feel like the world is ending. I mean it, that’s the way it feels. I can’t figure out if I’m stupid, or if I’ve really never understood death before. “War” has become something of a cushy term we use to describe outcomes, and does no justice to the blood on the hands of the weeping youth, and that’s only a reference to what’s happening here. A million times I’m too afraid to even learn of what’s truly taking place because not only am I confused, but I am loud. I cannot help but be loud in my confusion. I do not feel equipped to retell the stories I hear told. I do not feel educated enough to lead, and despite the words repeated and repeated and reread and reread, I feel queasy and it makes me weak. Activism, I realize, is a reaction to that feeling, but lives are lost and lost and lost at every turning point in history and here we are, 150 years later and our progress is negligible at best. I feel afraid. I am too afraid to know, and too afraid to fall ignorant, and barely learning how to turn the fear into something worth saying.
January 15th, 2015