We, as non-white, know too the reaches of injustice, but there are levels to its reach. It is Black people worse of all, whose backs have always been pressed against the wall, who are murdered in plain sight, that have felt its hold the most. And then in their fight for survival, they built their foundations anew and weaved a culture of beauty, laughter, art—from which we then take with abandon.
What have we given in return?
He could not breathe. Without the literal knee on their necks, there are still so many others that are constricted. Held down. They are barely breathing.
Injustice passes by some of us as words and pictures and videos.
For many others, injustice curls around them,
tangled at their feet, halting progress
clenched around their hearts—a heavy, persistent weight
wrapped at their necks, halting life.
Who are we to let it pass us by
Who are we to allow it to happen to others
19 years! I can’t believe I’ve held on to this for 19 years. And at 19 and 34, we are back. Lots of growth these past few years. Lots of losing, searching, finding, learning; lots of darkness and lots of light. But right here and now, on this sunny, perfect day in NY, I am beaming with happiness. Welcome home.
I feel bad for my mother. I think her children are stunted in the “showing emotion” department. We don’t show her the love and praise she deserves. We are stoic, though so is she. Sometimes I wonder if it hurts her.
She left us in the Philippines when I was 2 and Christian was 4. “She left us”—to put it that way is offensive. She sacrificed time with her children in their most formative years to lay the foundations for them in another country.
I sometimes wonder how much of that distance contributed to our independent nature. Physical distance sustained for 5 years, and when we were reunited, the distance of a mother working night shifts and sleeping through the day.
I don’t ever remember being angry about it. Don’t ever remember craving a mother’s tender love or guidance; I didn’t expect it so I never missed it. Did that hurt her too?
Looking back through the cracks of our memories, I wonder what she truly sacrificed to get us here: time, close familial bonds. Was it worth it?
Yes, of course it was.
Mothers are always a lesson in strength and sacrifice, and she–mine–was also a lesson in letting go. You can see in her face there is no bitterness and she smiles with that quiet pride. She knew how to forgive. She knew how to accept her children, as we are.
Words of love and praise are few and far between, but isn’t every fiber of me already a dedication to you?
Happy Mother’s Day, every day of my life.