b king

An Open Letter to America

Dear true America,

Fight back. He won. But it’s not over. It cannot be over with so much on the line. I know you want to give up. I know you want to lose all hope. I’m having an anxiety attack on my morning bus as I write this: so, what does this tell us? Does this tell us that giving up and losing hope is going to help us? We can’t afford it not to. I feel like I’m having a heart attack. I will not let it stay.

So fight back. Fight back with all you can. Fight back, and stay safe in the meantime. Don’t you think about hurting yourself over this. I assure you, it’s not the right choice, or even the helpful one. We can fucking do this. Think of John Laurens and the other abolitionists; think of Susan B. Anthony and the other feminists and activists; think of Hamilton and other immigrants who came and made this country their own and never gave up, ever. Think of all the people you have got on your side. I am on your side. My anxiety-ridden ass with fight with you. Bonus points if I can aim my vomit at the enemy.

Think of all the power you have got in you. You are more important than you realize. You are a being of fingernails and teeth and scars and fight, and you will not be taken down so easily. I know you. I know. You are stronger than this fear; love is always stronger than fear; we have got something worth fighting for. They have nothing but hate. Love wins against hate in the end. Love wins.

I know it’s hard to believe in anything I’m saying. I’m trying to believe in anything I’m saying. I’m on my way to high school in the country, where people ride tractors to school and have Confederate flags attached to their trucks and wear WhiteLivesMatter shirts for the hell of it. To a high school where I am the president of the GSA. I am so afraid.

But I do not fight depression and OCD and anxiety and anorexia to give up over a terrorist and a bigot. I do not fight every day to give up over this. This isn’t a mess I made, but I will sweep it up. And when I burn the ashes, you better believe something spectacular is going to rise.

America the privileged is a country of comfortable white men. But America the true nation is a country of brave minorities and allies and fighters. We are a people who have not given up since white men first came over. Ask the Native Americans who still fight to this day for basic human rights, ask them if you should give up. Ask them if, for one damn second, they have given up since white men came over. You think they could have afforded to? You think my ancestors escaped Italy and were faced with racism and bigotry here, just to give up in the face of it? You think the slaves who died and fought and rebelled would condone you giving up? You think the activists we know and love would give up?? You think Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr and Gandhi and Angelica Schuyler and Susan B. Anthony would? Anthony died without the right to vote, but she died fighting for what she knew was right. Dr. King might have died before he saw the fruits of his labor, but he died creating hope and belief and fight in the brave black people of this country. He died changing history.

You can be that person. A tiny white gay girl from Columbus. A trans black man from Philly. A Muslim woman from New York City. You are all Dr. Kings and Gandhis and Schuylers and Anthonys waiting to happen. You have all the power. And we have all the power if we band together.

It is not unbelievable. We grew up reading about heroes with swords and dragons, heroes who fight for what was right no matter how young they were. We grew up imagining battles against evil. We fell in love with Liberty’s Kids and Hamilton and Les Mis and The Hunger Games. Now is the time for you to join the revolution you always yearned for.

Hear the people sing. The song of angry men. And women. And others.

The song of humanity.

Hear the people sing. The song of humanity. A humanity that will not be slaves again.

Sincerely,

The pan Italian queer girl from buttfuck Hicksville

plan a: punch it plan b: blow it up plan c: panic

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I’ve found that the best way to write a death scene is to make it saddest when it shouldn’t be. The funeral is rushed, the realization of death isn’t spent too much time on, and the characters mourning is more of a blank space filled with hums and a need for endless nothings.

But then Person A finally gets to be alone and gets to their room and looks at the bed and realizes that it’s suddenly a lot bigger. And they’re too short to reach the blinds to close them, and that was always Person B’s job. And they’ll never fold clothes for someone else again, never need to ask someone to turn off the light, never try to stop them from snoring. And then moving away from it all, trying to forget, holding back tears in the kitchen cradling a cup of tea they realize that Person B will never drink tea with them again. And they’ll never help them reach their mug. And when they drop it to the floor, shattering it into millions of helpless individuals there is no one there to tell them not to move, not to step on the glass, not to cut themselves. That the mug has no worth because it’s worth was in the adventures of cleaning up the pieces and remembering it as it was. 

There is no one to stop them from hurting. And there is no one to drink tea.

Tragedy comes in the little things. I just wanted to remind you of that.

  • Rowan: I'd walk into the burning heart of hell itself to find you
  • Aelin: I'll always find a way back to you
  • Me: WELL IT LOOKS LIKE YOURE BOTH GONNA HAVE TO NOW THAT EVERYTHING HAS GONE TO SHIT
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