By Kat Terban
The Thursday that should have been
Thanksgiving became a visceral dash
to rekindle the torch of Liberty. We
did not go quietly. We danced in the streets
on the political graves of the ones who
wanted us to lay down and die to line
their pockets and protect their secrets.
We melted down ill-wrought bronze
men, tore them from the ground, painted
over their collective pedestals with Freedom’s
words. We did not go quietly. We shoved
shoulders together, toppled the violent
machinations of the ones who wanted us
to cry in fear and submit to terror.
We blew back the gas they tried to choke
us with on nights we walked masked
shouting our demand to be treated
as human beings, Equal and worthy
regardless of circumstance. We did not
go quietly. We fed each other words
that sparked action and linked arms
protecting who and what we hold most dear.
We give thanks to the ones who fed us
and tended our wounds. We give thanks
to the ones who recognized our need to be
seen and regarded as whole persons
deserving better than enslavement and death.
We give thanks to the ones who broke blue lines,
put down their arms and walked away
from corruption to take up signs and outrage.
We give thanks to the ones who stood up
with cameras, who were less-lethally maimed
and battered, and witnessed roiling camouflaged
terrorists barking with uncovered mouths and
uncovered muzzles trying to silence dissent.
Do not go quietly. Rise. Say our names.
Kat Terban (they/them) watches cheesy movies with friends, likes to play with their words, and invites fantastical creatures to solve mysteries and drink tea. They live atop a hill, in a land of moss, clover, and roses, where songbirds greet them every morning and cats purr them to sleep every night. Follow them on Twitter @semiotic_pirate.
This piece is a part of DISTANCED 3.0.