Dear America,
I sit to write this, and I don’t know what to say. I am not one to struggle with words—they are always there, always ready in the back of my mind and tip of my tongue, but it’s hard to write this. It’s hard to express my disappointment when I cannot make you feel the ache in my heart. All I have are words, and you so often don’t listen.
But I need you to listen.
I don’t know how to convince you that Trump is dangerous, that he is hateful, that he is ruinous. Puppeteers pull strings; he opens his mouth and lies spill from his tongue, sleek as oil, poisoning your mind with fear.
I don’t know how to convince you that Covid-19 is serious, that thousands dead is not a hoax, but a tragedy. A wildfire in the hands of a child, we didn’t stand a chance against the selfishness of man.
I don’t know how to convince you that my body is mine, and mine alone. My uterus does not belong in the Supreme Court. My life does not belong to a man. You rape us, you beat us, you kill us. Nevertheless, we've persisted.
I don’t know how to convince you that children do not deserve to die in a classroom, gunned down with an automatic rifle. You say, “children are our future,” but if you meant that, they would not cower from barrages of bullets under bulletin boards.
I don’t know how to convince you that Black lives matter. You pretend Jim Crow is a thing of the past, but Jim Crow lives behind a white picket fence and wears a badge. That is why we march: no justice, no peace. You leave us to pick up the pieces.
I don’t know how to convince you that love is love, that you have no place in a bed that isn’t yours. I don’t know how to convince you that trans lives matter. You only want the bodies they were born in, but value lies in the soul, not the skin.
I don't know how to convince you that the Earth is beautiful. She grew us, fed us, sheltered us, but you wanted more. Ungrateful of all you were given, you have burned her and hurt her, remorseless of your destruction.
I don’t know how to convince you that children do not belong in cages, that you cannot promise the American Dream and then rip it away because it is not white; America is not white. It never was.
I don’t know how to convince you that my voice matters but make no mistake—it does.
You tell me to be quiet—sit down—don’t argue—don’t get angry—calm down—shut up.
You call me ignorant—young—dumb—bitch—sheep—nasty—sensitive—snowflake.
But, America, you made me this way. You molded me, taught me, scolded me. You told her, “You asked for it.” You asked him, “Why did you resist arrest?” You resist change, and I ask you, “Why?”
I am angry. I am frustrated. I am tired.
I don’t know how to convince you to do the right thing. I only hope that you do.
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To my fellow Americans: vote. Vote like your life depends on it, even if it does not. Remember that your vote can be based on both education and emotion. Our country cannot withstand another four years of this administration—an administration that lies, that withholds information, that puts the white and the wealthy ahead of the rest of the country. If you have privilege, use it. Use your vote.
About the Creator
Katherine J. Zumpano
writer 🖌️ reader 📖 pnw 🌲
wwu alum 🎓
pisces sun ♓️ taurus moon ♉️
pieces in southchild lit, jeopardy mag & more
social media: @kjzwrites
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