Love in a Time of Hate

“This will always be the land of the free, so long as it is the home of the brave.”

-Elmer Davis

I don’t know when our differences became bricks we used to wall ourselves in and close ourselves off from one another. I don’t know when we decided that we must scream to be heard in a world that is already far too loud. I don’t know when belittling another’s opinion made us feel more emboldened with our own. I have no idea when we decided that the world had to be seen in black and white, right and wrong; without the shades of gray I’ve always so dearly loved. We drew a line and determined that everyone must take a step, make a stand, choose a side. And then grab a stone to hurl towards the other crowd. All while forgetting that we know so many faces over there. If we demonize them and their ideals, then we can forget the people underneath. We seem to forget that this country of ours is not a comic book- we do not have heroes and villains. We have people. Perfectly flawed people with beautifully varied colors that shade our background and our perspectives. When did we decide that we had to prove the other side wrong to believe in our hearts that we are right? When did we determine that there had to be a wrong answer?

Because tonight, I am exhausted. I am disheartened, I am frustrated. The worst part of this whole mess: we did this. We are still doing this. We want to point the finger at someone, we want to cast blame and doubt, we want to force the other side to concede when they feel just as righteous as we do. We are chasing each other around in circles and we don’t even recognize that the hate we are pointing out in them is also being mirrored in ourselves.

I don’t care who you voted for, just as you don’t care which box I checked on that piece of paper. It doesn’t matter. No lines need to be drawn on my sand, there is no tallied score. We do not need to tear one another down to build ourselves up. We do not need to search the darkest corners of the other’s camp, and hold their worst up into the light as a glaring example of what is wrong with them and their opinions. Because these dark corners- they do not make up the whole of our respective camps. You can not paint millions of people with one brush. Those shadows- they are only a small percentage, they do not define the group.

I am not a democrat. I am not a republican. I am not a conservative. I am not a liberal. I do not wear a label like a name tag. My views land all over that beautiful board we call democracy. What happened to us? How long have we required a title; locking someone up in a box with a small description of the contents- we do not belong in a zoo. ‘Over here you will see the moral fallacies of the Republican Party, and if you take a left at the Statue of Liberty you will behold the dark lair of the Democrat and their misguided ideology.’ No. This is not us. This is not the country that I have always loved, this is not the country that I was raised to believe in.

Not every person who voted for Trump is a racist. They do not all hate the LGBT community. They do not all feel that women are objects to be used and thrown away. Just the same way that not every person who voted for Clinton is corrupt, on a witch hunt for your guns, or a ‘libtard crybaby,’ if I have my terminology correct. Yes, there are some that fall into these categories, but I do not believe that they are the majority. If anyone would take just a moment to stop and actually listen to someone of the opposing opinion without interrupting to explain why their views are better- then maybe they would come to this same conclusion. The point that I am trying to make is that, if you speak to people on either side of the line, you will realize that both have a deep misunderstanding of what is important to those opposing them. It is fueled by fear and misinformation. We need to stop assigning labels to people and inferring their beliefs and opinions based on these snap judgments. We do not belong in boxes. We do not need to drag others through the mud in order to bring more credence to our own beliefs.

Wasn’t that the beauty of this country? We were a haven for those who didn’t belong, those who were persecuted for their beliefs, for their views, for their way of life. We spilled our blood to defend our right to maintain our own opinions without fear. And here we are- destroying each other and everything that we hold dear.

There is a difference between maintaining your views and being respectful of another’s. We are not monsters here, none of us are. And if we took away the labels, perhaps we would begin to realize that our views really aren’t that far apart. Perhaps we would begin to see the path that needs to be followed. Perhaps we would find our compassion again and rediscover the beauty that we used to see in one another long enough to listen- truly listen- with an open mind, without pre-recorded objections and insults to shoot out randomly like poisoned barbs.

We are scared of one another- in a country that prides itself on bravery, we are terrified. Is that it- is that the crux of our anger? Because we don’t know what will happen and we don’t recognize the world that we’ve always lived in. We lost our compassion. I believe that we have a responsibility to one another. We have to look out for each other. We have to protect one another and our rights.

I will admit that I am afraid for us, for my friends, for the values that I stand for; but I am not alone. So to those of you who are in fear because of the color of your skin, your nationality, your religion, your gender, your sexual orientation- for those of you who feel exposed and unprotected in a world that suddenly feels so cold- I stand with you. I stand for you. I will not watch from a distance as you are screamed at, pushed, threatened or hurt. I will fight for you with every fiber of my being. Because I believe in you. I believe in your rights. I believe that you make us better, stronger, more compassionate. I believe that you bring light to a dark part of our society. In a world where you feel like your voice is being lost, I will listen. And to those of you who are afraid for your right to free speech, religion, the right to bear arms- I will protect you. I will not stand idly by if you are unjustly called a racist, a sexist, a homophobe, a xenophobe. I will defend you when you are in fear of retaliation for ideals that you personally do not hold. Whether your belief systems align with mine or not- I will not let someone harm you. Because I believe in peace, I believe in leading by example. I believe in treating others as I wish to be treated. I believe that we are responsible for creating the world that we wish to live in.

In Portland yesterday there was a protest that devolved into a riot. It made international news- there was damage, and as I drove by the city today I could not miss the signs of hate left behind. But what you probably didn’t hear about are the volunteers who got up early today to clean up their city. They did not go to the protest, though many of them supported the protestors. They were not responsible for the damage. But they did not want to see their city hurt or torn apart by hate. So they cleaned, they painted, they erased the harm and brought back the beauty. The peaceful protestors that started the event did not condone the violence that erupted. And yet, though they did not personally resort to violence themselves, they still chose to raise money to pay for the damages. They raised $10,000 in one day. They took responsibility for the world they wanted to live in. These are not things that you will probably hear reported in the news. But these are the people that we must emulate- these are the one who responded to hate with love. They do not question who is right or who is worthy of their respect. They do not cast blame for what has happened. They simply want to see their community thrive. This is what we need. We need to protect each other. We need to respect each other. And we need to remember that our differences are the very things that make us so formidable. United we stand, divided we fall. I do not have to agree with you to respect you.

No more hate. Our candidates have dropped their stones, the mud has stopped flying. That does not mean that we need to pick them up and continue this bitter war. We must stay vigilant; we must still protect our ideals. But we do not have to destroy each other in the process. We are past the point of ‘us’ versus ‘them.’ No, now we must come together. The time for fighting is gone, the dice was cast and we have a future to work on. Now we need to look forward and have an open discussion. We have come too far to fall apart now. We are worth too much to destroy ourselves.

I Will Never be ‘Normal’ (and how I inadvertently discovered ice cream tacos)

I have always had an idea in my head of the type of woman that I wanted to become. I pushed aside all of my personal phobias and eccentricities; I don’t know if I thought I would grow out of them, or if I believed that I could simply will them into nonexistence. If I stopped acknowledging my flaws, perhaps they would just disappear. I knew that the person I was didn’t align with the bold woman that I envisioned to grow into. I was going to be that shooting star; a bright, intelligent woman with style to boot. I was going to be clever, I wouldn’t be afraid to dance in a crowded room, I would jump at any and all opportunities. I would have a thousand stories for the hundreds of off-the-wall experiences I had. I was going to be fun, sparkly and spontaneous. Impromptu midnight drive to the coast so we can watch the sunrise? Bring it on. Skinny dipping at the lake- why the hell not. Learning a new dance in a room full of stranger? I thought you’d never ask.

I didn’t expect to be the way that I am, wrapped up in my own little shell like a turtle. I didn’t anticipate that my tongue would still tie at the most inconvenient moments, forcing my face to turn ketchup red as I scurried away to internally berate myself. I didn’t think that twenty-seven year-old me would still be intimately familiar with the flash of panic that raced through my nervous system at the mere prospect of being left alone in the room with another person to partake in that dreaded act known as small talk. I didn’t think my hands would still get clammy and my voice would get quiet when I made a comment and didn’t get immediate responses. I didn’t think that adult Katie would still be fighting the same demons that I raged against ten years ago. No, I did not think that these would be daily struggles in my life.

I am a master in the arts of self-sabotage. I am a creature deeply in love with her comforts. Tonight I knew exactly what my plans were going to be when I got home from work. I was just settling into the rare treat of a hot bubble bath coupled with a good book I’ve waited all day to read. And then a wrench came flying, smashing right through my meticulously well-laid plans. My fiancé knocked on the door and let me know that his friend reached out and invited us to meet them at a cool foodie place over in Portland. And we would have to leave right away. You see, his best friend got engaged last weekend, and today his fiancé got a promotion at work- they wanted to celebrate, and they wanted to share that moment with us. I am ashamed to admit that I actually hesitated. One part of me was bouncing up and down screaming, ‘yes, it’s Friday night, let’s go do this! Where are my boots?’

But then there is the other voice. It’s a quiet but persistent little creature. It twists my stomach in knots as it stand awkwardly in the corner, tugging on my sleeve and whispering to me that it’s not a good idea- I’ll just say something stupid, there will be those awful moments of complete silence and wouldn’t it be so much better to just ignore the entire world while I hide with my bubbles and book? This is the voice that takes my self-esteem, crumples it up into a little ball like it’s nothing ore than a piece of tarnished notebook paper, tosses it on the ground and then drives a Zamboni overtop of it. Twice. And then takes a match and lights it on fire for good measure- all with an apologetic little frown. If you’ve ever seen the movie ‘Inside Out,’ I like to picture Sadness- turning everything she touches blue. That’s what my little voice is like, she is the unofficial face for all of my anxieties.

The rational part of me understands that my fears are generally unfounded, but emotions can easily overpower any and all rational thought. It is a battle that I am not always well equipped to fight. I had hoped that if I started pushing myself out of my comfort zone, that the fear would stop and I could learn how to function like a relatively well-adjusted adult. But alas, that is not how this war is won. It must be fought one battle at a time. I have to learn to push myself out that door no matter how many times that little voice inside tried to throw herself on the ground kicking and screaming at me to turn around and go put my pajamas back on like a good little girl.

And yet tonight, I took a deep breath and said okay. Because I knew it was the right thing to do, I knew that I would have fun once I got out of my own head, and I knew that I would regret it if I didn’t. You see, I have one fear that is actually bigger than my fear of all forms of social interaction- and that would be the fear of watching my anxieties slowly erode all of the relationships that mean anything to me. Because sadly, that has happened in the past. This is a tragic tale I am all too familiar with, a lesson I have learned too late- one that I do not wish to breathe fresh life into.

So I put on my cute jacket and my new necklace. And I started typing this post in the car as my fiancé loudly sang his new favorite song ‘The Death of a Bachelor’ as we drove to Portland. And you knew what happened? We had a great time. We hung out, we talked, we laughed, we ate some awesome food (including an ice cream taco- what? Yes, you heard me right- a waffle cone ‘taco shell’ with ice cream inside, drizzled with magic shell chocolate sauce to keep the whole mess contained). Tonight we did what normal people do. And it felt fantastic. Because I forced myself to get out of my own way. Because I chose to control my anxiety instead of letting it dictate my life for me. And that little voice inside? She was too busy happily munching ice cream to poke at me.

Tonight I won a small battle in a war that I have to fight every single day. And you know what? I’m proud of myself. Because for one night I did what everyone else does, and I enjoyed myself. Growing up I always had an idea of the type of woman that I wanted to be. But it wasn’t realistic. I am not that perky picture-perfect spontaneous woman. I like to have at least a semblance of control over the situations that I put myself. But that doesn’t mean that I have to hide in my house and avoid the world. It just means that I have to try a little bit harder to get myself out that door. It means that I have to force a smile until I start to feel a real one forming. It means that I have to laugh and joke until I feel the tension ease from my shoulders, until the sickening knots in my stomach begin to untangle. It means that I have to be stronger than I ever imagined, it means that I have to fight. And you know what? I am so proud of the woman that I have become. I am not the woman that I had always envisioned, but I am stronger than she ever could have been. I am awkward and quirky, I am nerdy and passionate, I dance even though I have no rhythm. But I force myself to step out of my comfort zone to truly live my life every single day. So yes, I am proud of the neurotic mess that I am. I am unapologetically me- and that is the best battle I have ever won.

 

The Fears of a Woman

I was raised to be a strong woman. I was taught to demand respect, to be soft when compassion was needed, to be tough when circumstances called for it, to stand my ground when the world wanted to push me around. I was raised to believe that I could do or be anything. So when did it become okay for faceless individuals to decide that what I had to offer the world amounted to no more than boobs, an ass and a pussy? That sounded a bit crude for my usual work, didn’t it? Yea, that’s what I thought too. And yet that is the world that we live in. A place where I am judged by the body parts that I possess and what I am willing to do with them.

My daddy never taught me that boys would be boys and could say whatever they wanted about me as they passed me in the street. My older brothers never shrugged their shoulders at the prospect of a man following me down the sidewalk making lewd comments. My fiancé never mentioned that it should be viewed as a compliment for a man to catcall me or reach out and grab my butt on the street because it meant that I was desirable. No, these were not things that I was ever taught. And yet they are the excuses so easily given and readily accepted. I don’t have daughters, but I have nieces. I have a mother, I have aunts, I have a sister. These rationalizations are not okay, and yet we shrug our shoulders and say boys will be boys. I don’t mean to overgeneralize, I know the vast majority of men don’t fall into this category- the men I am close to in my life- they respect women. So where did this idea come from that this behavior was acceptable?

A comedian once asked a sold out auditorium how many of the women had been sent a picture of a man’s penis on their phone- virtually every hand rose. If you pick ten random women on the street and ask them if they have ever been sexually assaulted or felt in fear because of the aggressive overtures coming from certain members of the opposite sex, I can guarantee you will have almost a unanimous yes. Every two minutes another person in America is sexually assaulted. In the amount of time it takes you to read this- how many people have been hurt, have been scared, have had the fabric of their lives forever altered? One out of every six American women has been the victim of an attempted or completed rape, and nine out of every ten victims of rape are female.

I work in the court system, and one aspect of my job includes a process known as voir dire, although most refer to it simply as jury selection. During this process a group of random people from the community are gathered together in an open courtroom to answer very personal questions pertaining to the subject of the case that we happen to be hearing that day to determine if they can be impartial. We handle a lot of sex cases, and as such, we have to ask these random strangers to voice their own histories. The court or counsel will ask the question ‘Have you or someone you are close to been a victim of sexual assault?’ I was shocked the first time I saw so many hands raise, and even more disheartened when I heard how many people raised their hands for themselves. And then the next question, ‘How many were reported’- it was like a tidal wave of fingers falling from the sky, leaving a solemn few raised alone.

Is this the world that we want to raise our daughters in? Are these the lessons that we wish to impart on our sons? The justifications of what we call social norms have a profound effect on our younger generations and what they will deem to be acceptable. Most young women believe that sexual assault is common, that catcalls and booty-grabbing in the halls of the high school are normal; and sadly, they are right- but that doesn’t mean that they should be. During a 2014 study, sociologist Heather Hlavka questioned young women regarding their views on sexual harassment and assault. One young woman’s answer speaks a terribly revealing truth, “They grab you, touch your butt and try to, like, touch you in the front, and run away, but it’s okay, I mean … I never think it’s a big thing because they do it to everyone.” These same young women were also very candid about the fact that they probably wouldn’t report any such events, believing that they would be ‘making a big deal out of nothing,’ many didn’t even view it as assault until it crossed that threshold into the realm of rape. When asked why they wouldn’t report it, they stated that they were concerned that they would be labeled as whores, sluts, or be accused of lying and exaggerating. Their silence, our silence, speaks volumes.

The majority of sexual assault victims are under 30 years of age. Females between the ages of 16 to 24 are four times more likely to be the victims of rape, attempted rape, or sexual assault than the general population, the statistics for those enrolled in college drop only minimally- to a mere three times more likely. This was when it happened to me. And I know that I am not the only one carrying the burden of an untold story. In fact, it is estimated that out of every 1,000 sexual assaults, only about 344 are actually reported to the police. How many of your friends, coworkers, or family members have one of these experiences that they simply haven’t told you?

Infographic reads "The majority of sexual assault victims are under 30." Statistic is broken down into five age groups.

All too often the finger gets pointed at the wrong person. It becomes a matter of what the victim did to incite the behavior- as if men are mere animals with no sense of self-control. People assume she must have been flirting, dressed provocatively, over imbibing in alcohol- a million different justifications, as if they excuse the transgression, as if she was asking for it. When I finally told someone about my assault, the response that I received was ‘well, now you know how to not get yourself into that situation again,’ as if it were my actions that forced his hand. When my friend finally found the strength to tell a police office what happened to her, the response that she received was ‘good luck with that.’ My friends, victims of assault find enough reason to blame themselves- and is it any wonder? When we are told that our actions are the cause. Last time I checked, no still meant no, and my body was still mine to decide what to do with. No one has the right to take those decisions from you.

I keep hearing that women objectify themselves; as if dancing provocatively, wearing a crop top and short-shorts or reading a smutty romance novel suddenly invalidates a woman’s right to choose what happens to her body. Try reversing this picture: if a man chooses to wear skinnier jeans that show off his assets- I don’t go up and pinch his butt or grab him from the front. If a man opts to watch porn, that doesn’t give me the right to run in and jump on top of him. So how are these examples any different when viewed from the perspective of a woman?

Someone I know recently posted a comparison to a very controversial book relating to some of the political conversations surrounding this topic:

dumb_50_shades_of_grey_meme_galore_mag

But you see, there is an inherent flaw in this reasoning. My issues with the statements that he made have nothing to do with the ‘naughty words’ that were said. My issue was the intent of those words- it was in the insinuation that a rich man can grab a woman’s intimate parts and that it is okay, hell, that it is desirable. To me that is a far cry from reading a risqué book about the fetishes of two consenting adults. It is the fact that a grown man believes that this is an appropriate way to talk about women- regardless of whether he is in the presence of only men or not. To compare the two is an attempt to minimize the true intent of the statement and to ignore the truly insidious problem we face as a society.

Most men are good men, this I believe. But that doesn’t change the fact that a large portion of the female population will wind up on the wrong side of this equation at some point in their lives. We have cultivated a sense of rape culture by normalizing behaviors that should not be shrugged away. No more ‘boys will be boys’- they know better. We can teach them better. And no more girls blaming one another or themselves for decisions they were not given the opportunity to make. No more calling names likes slut or whore, no more raised eyebrows as we ask what she could have done to avoid the situation. Our bodies are our own, and until that basic human right is given the respect that it deserves, this battle will continue. I don’t know about you, but I am terrified to have my little nieces grow up in a world where they will have these same fears that I had. I am enraged by the fact that so many of my friends and family have a painful history that echoes my own. We are sisters in our suffering. And it is not acceptable.

How many minutes have you been reading this? How many more people have been hurt? While it is true, that the numbers of sexual assaults have been slowly declining over the decades, that does not mean that the problem no longer exists. These are conversations that must be had, stories that must be brought out into the light, experiences that need to be understood to be stopped. This is not a complicated right to be requesting. What do I want? I want to know that I can walk into a bar with my friends without someone reaching out for a touch, that I can go for a jog in my own neighborhood without clutching a can of mace and keeping one earbud out to hear approaching footsteps. I want to know that my sister can walk down the street without fear from the man that started catcalling her and moved in her direction. I want to know that my nieces will be able to walk down the halls of their high school without being touched or put in fear. I want to be able to go out and dance or read a smutty novel without someone acting like that means I have given away my rights to simple decency. I want to be treated like the lady that I am, the ladies that we all are, not an object to be yelled at, taunted, touched or used. That is the world that I want to raise a daughter in. That is the way I wish to raise a son.

 

This World Will Not Change Me

I am not a hero. I have never run into a burning building or set a broken bone. I have never knowingly charged into danger knowing that I might not make it home when all was said and done. No, I am not a hero. But I was raised by one, though he would never call himself that. My dad is my hero, he is my example on how to live. My dad has run into burning buildings, he has whisked people to safety, he has helped them die as peacefully as possible when there was nothing left to do, he has searched through rubble for the telltale hint of a human soul. My dad has run into danger knowing he might not make it home. He has been hurt, he has been broken, but he has never stopped getting back up and doing it all over again. Because it was the right thing to do, because it was something that he could do. When I was little, I didn’t think much of it; it was just a fact of our lives- other people’s dads went to office buildings wearing suits, my dad charged into burning houses wearing a rather different dress code. I remember special goodnight kisses before shifts, going to visit at the station houses, camping trips with his ‘work family.’ Looking back now, I see the truth hidden behind the smiles, I see the pain and the reward that being the hero can bring. There is not only glory to be found, there is so much more buried below the surface if you only take the time to look.

On April 19, 1995 evil struck in an unimaginable way with the Oklahoma City Bombing. I had just turned six, but I still remember the footage of the building, only a portion still eerily standing. When the call rang out for help, my dad answered it. He flew out with his search and rescue team to assist in whatever way he could. He was never one to stand back and watch, he always had to help.

This is my dad during the search and rescue after the Oklahoma City Bombing:

The second picture where he is sitting on a bucket was a shot taken and used in Garth Brook’s 1995 music video ‘The Change,’ which doubled as a tribute to the victims and rescuers of Oklahoma City. If you ever feel the desire to watch, you can view the original video here: Garth Brooks ‘The Change’ original music video.

When I was a little girl I was so proud of this video- that was my dad! I would pop in the VHS tape and watch it over and over, just to see him right here. Today I found the video again- having a deep yearning to hear this song once more. And when I reached the scene I knew so well, this image hit me like a truck, making it hard to breath. For the first time I saw what it really portrayed. Pain. He never talked much about what happened there, we would get some stories as we got older, but it was nothing like seeing him in that moment of raw heartache and disbelief as the world was falling apart around him. I know they were there primarily as recovery- they flew in after many of the survivors were already rescued. Their mission was to help give peace to the families who lost so much that day, by allowing them to bury those they loved. And it took its toll on all of them. Seeing the devastation of so much hate will do that- it is a side of humanity that no one is ever ready to face. For the first time I saw how much my dad sacrificed to help others.

And then I came across this- a picture he took and kept from that time.

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It’s just a simple sign. But it was powerful. It was a reminder, it was a promise- it was an embodiment of all that we are. When we have no other choice, we find out what we are made of inside, and it is usually so much more than we would have ever anticipated. Through our pain we find strength in one another, we find hope in a lost world.

“The Change”
By: Garth Brooks

One hand
Reaches out
And pulls a lost soul from harm
While a thousand more go unspoken for
They say what good have you done
By saving just this one
It’s like whispering a prayer
In the fury of a stormAnd I hear them saying you’ll never change things
And no matter what you do it’s still the same thing
But it’s not the world that I am changing
I do this so this world will know
That it will not change me

This heart
Still believes
The love and mercy still exist
While all the hatred rage and so many say
That love is all but pointless in madness such as this
It’s like trying to stop a fire
With the moisture from a kiss

And I hear them saying you’ll never change things
And no matter what you do it’s still the same thing
But it’s not the world that I am changing
I do this so this world will know
That it will not change me

As long as one heart still holds on
Then hope is never really gone

I hear them saying you’ll never change things
And no matter what you do it’s still the same thing
But it’s not the world that I am changing
I do this so this world we know
Never changes me

What I do is so
This world will know
That it will not change me

Today I haven’t been able to get this song out of my head, I keep coming back to the same thing, the words are burning through my veins. I wish I could do more. I wish I had more to give. I am not a firefighter, a nurse, a doctor, a police officer, a soldier- there are so many things that I am not. I am just a girl, just one solitary girl who finds her power with the written word. Some days it seems that is all that I have to give. And in a world that seems to be shattering right before my eyes- I have to ask myself if that is really enough?

Words feel so small in the face of so much pain and anger. But it is all that I have. I would like to think that I would step forward if the opportunity were thrust upon me, that in the heat of a moment I would make the selfless choice, I would do what my dad has always taught me. As the song says, “I do this so the world will know that it cannot change me.” Perhaps the most powerful thing that we can do is prove to the world that it will not make us jaded, it will not stop us from caring, it will not smother the flame of humanity we all started this life with. This world will never be able to create so much fear in my heart that I stop trying to help. If I find myself forever mired in these struggles, facing the choice of giving more of myself than I think I can bear to lose- I would still fight. The darkness of this world will never change me. I will always try live by my dad’s example. I will always try to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. I will always try to be a welcoming smile in a world full of bitter anger. I will always try to be a voice of reason in the screaming crowd. I will always fight- even if it means using the only power I possess- my words. I have spent enough of my life idly standing by. I will not be afraid. I will not be bitter or jaded or angry. I will not be changed.

We let fear rule us all too often, we allow the anger to twist our thoughts into venom that we thrust upon others. We turn our backs because there is so much that we can’t process yet, we think that this world will never change. Fear breeds helplessness, which in turn feeds anger. We create our own vicious cycles by giving into the temptation that is giving up. We turn our backs and wonder where all the heroes have gone, we never stop to look down and recognize ourselves for what we could be. You don’t have to change the world, you simply have to hold your ground and not let it change you.

The news is full of stories and speeches touting hate and segregation. We are afraid of one another because we refuse to open our eyes and search for the truth beyond what the reporters and politicians are telling us. We refuse to discuss the true issues. Our own ignorance will destroy us. People speak of building walls and closing borders, all the while forgetting that the majority of our disasters are home-grown. We forget that these people we are turning our backs on- they are really no different than us. It seems we forgot that age-old rule to treat others as we wish to be treated. My four year old nephew understands this concept, but many of the adults that I know have let it slip away. We have the power to change this, but we would rather blame everyone else. We listen to the fear mongering that has inundated our media- forgetting that they simply want a story they can sell. We listen to the voices that are screaming the loudest without focusing on what they actually have to say.

I refuse to give into the darkness that we have cast ourselves in. I refuse to turn away from someone who needs my help because I am afraid. If enough of us decide to be brave, we can banish any monster. I refuse to let this world change me. I will be soft, I will be kind, I will not scream, but I will not stop speaking. Because my voice is all that I have. Perhaps it is all that I need. I know that we are capable of so much more, I have seen it. Every hero must pay a price. I have seen the cost in my dad’s eyes. But I have also seen the reward. I have heard the stories, I know the price of the choices that I wish to make. That will not stop me from making them. Because I was raised to do the right thing, no matter how hard it is, no matter how many people try to scream that I am wrong. I will not back down, I will not break. I will keep getting up. I will not let this world change me.

What I do is so
This world will know
That it will not change me