zoe-and-grace

[zoe-and-grace]

The Magic

I have an incredibly important secret I must tell you, one that very few in this world know. I’m trusting you with this, only you, so you cannot tell a soul. I once knew a little girl with magic. She truly had it, I’m telling you the honest to God truth! Don’t believe me? Fair enough. In this frightening world, it seems that magic cannot possibly exist. I’ve seen it though. I’ve seen it all.

           This little girl’s wondrous powers made the impossible into reality. She had the four elements at her complete disposal, whether she wanted to bring life giving water to a dominion, or unleash howling winds just to watch everything dance and quiver. She could build earthen fortresses with ease and keep voracious flames at bay with the force of her glare. Her affinity for water was the strongest. Sometimes she would wade into the ocean to swim with mer-people, twisting and twirling in joy. When she dove underwater, she became filled with indescribable serenity. She would make her home there for a while, encased in her turquoise haven, feeling beautiful and free.

Those eyes, they were powerful tools. The young girl also had the gift of painting, of creation. Before her, rapturous scenes would unfold, all at the behest of her cornflower blue eyes. With her breath of life, things that were often trapped in movies could now exist on her elementary school playground. She was quite fond of the adventures, with heroes, and danger, and wonder, and intrigue, and magic. The other kids couldn’t seem to see the little girl’s mystical talents. Sometimes they engaged in something of magical nature, she was sure they did, but they mostly pursued other strange activities. They played on the peripheries of her quests, hanging unaware from jungle gyms, energetically launching dodgeballs at each other, and screaming themselves hoarse. Eventually, the little girl found them—those with magic, or at least those who wanted to see it. She knew she couldn’t be the only one. With the addition of more diverse magic, her tales became even more vibrant, practically pulsing with energy. The colors became richer, the shapes gained more dimension, the sounds grew closer. Her heart was most at peace when others flitted about in their beautiful sorcery, running from the devious forces of evil intent on petrifying them all. But perhaps she created too well and her friends stayed permanently petrified, because most stopped coming to the playground field. She wondered if they had lost their skills.

She would always try to find those with the power. One was a boy named Gavin in the second grade. He was skinny and blond with a squeaky voice. When they created together, they became superheroes. They had any weapon imaginable at their disposal and adopted numerous personas to protect the world. They had a dark underground lair buried deep underneath the playground field, with miles of treacherous wilderness right outside. If the quests got rough, they would occasionally have to exercise their expert survival skills. However, you aren’t to mention Gavin to the little girl. He betrayed her and went to play soccer every recess. He never said it to her face, but all the people he played with afterwards were also boys. She suspected it was some sort of “girls have cooties” or “boys play with boys” garbage. She thought she could teach him magic again, but he abruptly moved to Hawaii.

There were a few others but they either had incompatible magic (there was a strange one who thought she was a cat, and that wasn’t the little girls style) or they lost interest. The little girl didn’t take it personally until a few other kids called her “weird”, “dorky” and “annoying.” It disheartened her greatly, and it appeared to coincide with a significant dampening of her magic. It was a horrifying experience. She had no trouble conjuring up the images of her stories and her natural powers, but she lacked the element that made them tangible. The little girl felt like a piece of herself was missing, and a piece of life. She tried to connect with the other kids and the adults, but was only vaguely successful with a select few. It eventually came to be that she was left in the field alone.

Shortly after her magic weakened, the clever little girl found a way to reignite it, a powerful spell called a book. These handy things were even more effective than her previous methods of animation. She could now be almost completely enveloped in faraway worlds, instantly transported into the magic. In no time at all, the girl leaped from Redwall to Warriors to Percy Jackson to Harry Potter and beyond. Every chance she could get was now spent in the library, or holed up with some book somewhere. The school librarian knew her by name, and the public librarian knew her by face and by the massive stack of books she hoisted onto the counter. The girl had managed to procure a library card, and now spent her afternoons riding her little purple bike down the street to the library with her mother’s Shakespeare tote hanging from her shoulders. She would disappear into the cramped juvenile section for hours, sitting on the floor and evaluating which books she wanted to explore next. Soon she found she had depleted the kid’s novel supply.

Somewhere between fifth and sixth grade, she emerged from the kid’s wing, looked both ways to see if anyone was watching, and creeped into the Teen’s section. At that point, she didn’t call it magic anymore. She no longer waved the garden hose around, calling herself a “water-witch.” She no longer swam with her mermaid doll, nor played “lost at sea” with her little sister. She barely stepped out on the playground anymore. She couldn’t even remember at which point imagination ceased to be synonymous with reality. The girl could now understand what others saw in her through her experiences while reading. If she detached from the world while reading, how disconnected must she have looked while playing superheroes? The girl still felt the pull to turn away from the present and slip into a state of unreality, but for many years she grappled with her imagination. Sometimes it enveloped her in comfort when she was disappointed, whispering what could have been. Simultaneously those prospects taunted her. Sometimes it would carry her away from her sadness, transforming her into someone better, braver, or prettier. Those images would then turn on her and make her mourn what could never be. The images could be her deepest desires and her strangest fantasies, and often they filled her with a magnificent desire to bound across oceans, dig her fingers into other soils and be one with the other. As the girl matured, her imagination had turned into its own beast, as if the magic from her childhood had spun out of control and manifested itself in ways she couldn’t comprehend, but delighted in.

I have an incredibly important secret I must tell you, one that very few in this world know of. I’m trusting you with this, only you, so you cannot tell a soul. There once was a young woman who was a prisoner of magic. She truly was, I’m telling you the honest to God truth! Don’t believe me? Fair enough. In this world governed by reason, it seems that magic cannot possibly exist. I’ve seen it though. I’ve seen it all.

One year the young woman fell apart. Her surroundings were changing more rapidly than she could handle, and her future seemed to be ominously looming over her shoulder, but that was on the periphery. The most concerning issue was the destruction of her mind. Everywhere she looked, she saw danger so everything she was became fear. If her petty paranoias from middle school had been a beast, then this new and horrible manifestation was a demon. It had possessed her so completely that she couldn’t tell where she began and the demon ended. Her fear spiraled out of control, taking charge of her body and her emotion. The place where the young woman had once retreated for safety was now a minefield.

Unfortunately, it only got worse. Rather than willfully stepping into the magic as she had done as a child, she was now sucked into a black tar pit of black magic. The things that were supposed to be confined to movies were now her reality. She couldn’t help but be consumed by the dreadful images that flashed before her cursed eyes and fleshed themselves out. In the mucky, soul sapping pit, she experienced the end of the world, over and over and over. She felt death creep up to her and breath its chill on her shoulder. It never touched her, but it seemed to love watching her shiver, gasping desperately for breath. The young woman despaired that her magic betrayed her so. She hated living every moment in that nightmarish otherworld, untethered and alone. She knew no one else could see the black magic. While being utterly alone disheartened her, she was only truly at peace when she reached out of the pit, clasped the hands of others, and pleaded for their warmth.

My secret isn’t a secret. There just aren’t many people who want to hear it. They refuse to see us, or validate our suffering. Escaping from the prison of my own mind was a long and laborious process. Sometimes I would feel as if I was taking three steps forward only to be dragged three miles backward. I felt the shame that my society had burdened me with, as if being in pain was my own fault. I felt as if I was solitary in that shame, and that no one could possibly help me. The secret is, we exist and we deserve to exist. The secret is, sometimes we fall apart. The secret is, we are never alone. It’s okay to desire strength. The strength of my own soul has gotten me through some rough patches. However, there are hands everywhere waiting to pull us into the light for a bit and help us heal. I promise, there is wonder everywhere, and you are still you, and I believe that you have the magic in you to take the hand, and hoist yourself up.

I have an incredible secret to tell you.  I’m trusting you with this, only you, so you cannot tell a soul. I never actually stopped being the little blonde girl with magic. I have had it all along, I’m telling you the honest to God truth! Don’t believe me? Fair enough. In this ugly world, it seems that magic cannot possibly survive. I’ve seen it though. I’ve seen it all.

The magic simply transformed.

[zoe-and-grace]

Zoi

It was clear that spring was afoot, if not from the patches of green peeking from the yellow on the school-yard lawn, then from the teases of warmth in the air around the small garden. Young children flitted about, playing games of make-believe, hanging from a jungle-gym like slippery apes, and launching projectiles at each other. This was of course normal even in the winter, but one little face had emerged from the library to join her classmates in their frolicking, but quite on a mission. Today, the quiet but sociable little tow-head had toted her mother’s copy of The Big Book of Baby Names to school, in honor of its reemergence to name her upcoming baby-brother.

It was a veritable treasure chest, with its hundreds of alphabetical names, their variations, their origins, and their meaning. The little girl had found her name at the very back of the book but she had found it nonetheless, having suffered from the pain of not finding her name on any Disneyland keychains, or special name-emblazoned items that were accessible to many an Emily or David. She was ecstatic—her name meant life in Greek. How cool was that? She then decided to share the bounty, and hunted down all her friends to tell them what their name meant and where it came from. Some of them wrinkled their noses, and some of them puffed up proudly. Some of them informed her that they didn’t like their name and that they wanted a different one. The girl couldn’t relate, she quite enjoyed being one of the only “z” names around, never having to be mistaken for someone else, and never hearing it used to call someone else. Also, she was life, how cool was that.

The little girl certainly had the option to choose a new name. That book kept her attention by revealing more and more beautiful names every day. She soon occupied herself by drawing people to fit these names. However, she never identified with any of them. There were so many, how could she choose one that fit her better than what she had owned her whole life? As time went on that didn’t change. She kept her names close to her heart, changing pieces of herself only with great care and thought. It was her surroundings that changed, and her circumstances. She was no longer the only “z” name by any means and her name was frequently used but not for her. And it unsettled her. She met people who flung off their names like ill-fitting clothes, and people who adopted new ones. She began to look closely at how her designated three letters and other letters shaped her, and how she had taken possession of them. It was in that aspect that she remained unique and special, just as she’d always wanted. Even though the little girl left the library and never went back, and left that little book in her mother’s closet, she made it a new mission to inspect every single inch of her name and her being and own it completely. Only then could she parade it out like she once had in that elementary school garden.

[zoe-and-grace]

11/08/16

When I stepped out onto my campus this morning there was an abrasive and cutting silence broken only by the distant ringing of the clock tower. It sounded like a death toll. As I woke up this morning Hillary Clinton was giving a concession speech. Donald Trump was elected forty-fifth president of the United States.

Last night, watching the election coverage, I sat among a crowd of young people who will be finalizing their education during a Trump-Pence presidency, a Republican majority congress, and a soon-to-be conservative majority Supreme Court. I held the hands of countless strangers and friends. I hugged them. I held them. I let them lean on me as they shook and cried.

Every woman, queer person, and person of color I have spoken to thus far- including my mother, my sister, and my friends- has expressed fear. In my class this morning voices were quieter and thinner than usual. Laughter and noise felt harsh and misplaced and was quickly swallowed by the depressed tension of the room. People were crying or trying not to, or staring differently at unfixed points in space.

My campus is not the only place that has been struck silent and scared. Half of the people who call America home woke up this morning and experienced some form of fear, or disappointment, or outrage, or maybe all three at once.

           Social media has been consumed by cries of outrage and upset. My sister, a queer fifteen-year-old girl, posted her fears on Facebook this morning and was met with the phrase “Give Trump a chance.” To this I wonder… will Trump give her a chance? Will he give Latinxs a chance? Muslims? Black Americans? Immigrants? Members of the queer community? Labor immigrants? Neurodivergent or learning different individuals? Non-able bodied citizens? How can someone urge a queer, neurodivergent, teenage girl to have hope for a man on trial for raping someone who was younger than her?

           I have yet to cry. I expressed my fears and anger in other ways. I did my laundry at one in the morning. I did my homework until two. I stared at my ceiling in the dark until three. I decided to channel my distress into action. I decided that I must have hope and determination to protect those in more danger of this soon-to-be presidency than myself. And this is how any person who loves America and desires progress must eventually behave. Apathy and numbness have a time and place. Mourning may linger for now, but come January mourning must give way to an unyielding defense of our nation’s people and the progressive freedoms the last eight years produced.

           I will not stop loving women. I will not stop being a woman with goals and passion and independence. I will stand my ground. When the backward push against liberty and freed and my hope for the future inevitably comes, I will push back harder. And I will not be alone.

           This nation is divided, and this split has never been so apparent. I do not believe this divide can be well mended in the next four years. To half-heartedly stitch together two ideologies that never belonged together in the first place will be an inevitable failure. This mending needs time, care, and genuine effort I do not believe the coming establishment can produce.  But that does not mean it is not possible. There is always hope for the future. Action can always be taken. Write your local representative. Donate to organizations the protect women’s health, queer rights, and people of color. Voice your opinion. Participate in marches and protests. Do whatever is necessary to keep hope alive. 

           Today, my politics professor cried through his lecture. Students cried while watching. The pain and fear in and for coming generations is palpable. But we continued to learn. My professor continued to teach. And, through tears and fear, we moved forwards. This is the only way the nation can maintain stability and hope. We must educate ourselves and use knowledge and passion as our weapon. Throughout the next four years, my generation will enter the workforce. The world will be very different then than it is now. And we will be educated. We will be passionate. We will be angry. We will be scared. But above all else, we will be prepared to put in the necessary work to maintain the America we love. The America that gives people of all background and identity the right to love, the right to live, and the right to opportunity. There will be wounds to mend and debris to clean, but if those who love their country and neighbors band together, stand strong, and defend the ideals of freedom in this nation, there will be potential and hope for a progressive future. We will remember that hope is stronger than fear. And we will move forward again, together.

[zoe-and-grace]

Response to The Age of Migration Chapter 2

The history of transnational migration is difficult to conceptualize without prior training in historical analysis. Migration is broad, far-reaching action that is vaguely defined. It is necessary to look at the multi-faceted nature of transnational movements through established theoretical lenses. In The Age of Migration: International Population Movements in the Modern World authors Castles, Haas, and Miller explore the unique perspectives and criticisms made relevant by commonly adopted theories concerning the "descriptive accounts of migration, settlement and minority formation" (Castles, Haas, Miller pp. 25).

           There is a demarcation between the theory of the causes of migration and the theories on the impact of migration. The “two main paradigms” on the causes of migration are known as ‘functionalist’ and ‘historical-structural’ theory. Historical-structural theory maintains a focus on migration as a negative response to forceful implementation of capitalism. The application of capitalism results in exploitable migrant labor which stimulates migration. Historical-structural theory pains migrants as victims of capitalism rather than free-willed agents. Alternately, functionalist theory maintains a more positive belief that migration is an action of free-will which “serves the interest of most people and contributes to a greater equality within and between societies” (pp. 27).

           Neither theory provides a broad or flexible lens for viewing migration through. While functionalist theories "downplay the role of the state and structural constraints" historical-structural theories put an unsupported stress on the role capital plays in migration. Neither approach fully accounts for the realities of the diverse and unpredictable human decision-making process. The reason for such limitation may be the central focus on the cause of migration rather than a combined consideration of cause and effect.

           Network theory, transnationalism theory, and migration systems theory have a deeper exploration of the “social, economic and cultural structures” migrants create at the “micro- and meso- level” (pp. 39). These theories provide a broader lens to view migration by recognizing how the influence of migrants in receiving areas affects further movement. Impact theories provide flexibility and awareness of human “agency.

The migration systems theory is particularly useful for considering nearly all conceivable elements which contribute to the development and analysis of migration over time. Migration systems approach is favorable because it analyzes migration from many aspects and gives rise to deeper questions. The theory inspires more in-depth exploration into the inner processes of the complex trends and speculations surrounding migration at multiple levels.

[zoe-and-grace]

News Media and Ideology: A Brief Analysis on Biased News by Grace

The news has deeply ingrained itself in modern first world society as a dominant force which shapes citizens’ political views and validates preconceived ideologies through media bias.  The news evolves to meet consumption and demand and to maintain influence in a technologically dependent society. As a result, popular news media has developed into a fast paced, sound bite dependent, biased information output. While some news awareness is better than none, fast-paced news media substitutes content for partiality or aggrandized facts. News media is growing as a pillar of panem et circenses entertainment akin to that used by the Roman empire to distract plebeians from the failing government and political issues at the rise of 122 B.C. The shift towards entertainment media makes sifting through sources to find unbiased or non-entertainment based news difficult. I find it necessary to incorporate diverse news media from multiple modes of output into my everyday life to avoid getting caught in the trap of media bias and distortion of facts. As a result, I frequent NPR and UN News to imbue well-rounded news media consumption into my day.

           This afternoon, when I opened the NPR news application on my phone, the top story read “3 Reasons We Care About Politicians’ Taxes.” The article contained an introduction briefly describing the inspiration for the article- which happened to be the release of Hillary Clinton’s tax returns. Following the introduction, the article went into the history of why similar tax releases have become common, citing Nixon and the infamous “Checker’s Speech” as the source of the trend. After all the prefacing, the article finally listed the three reasons referred to in the headline: “1. Conflicts of Interest”, “2. Do they have a heart?”, and “3. Are they like us?” Each reason preceded two or three paragraphs that delved into the historical and modern importance of political tax releases and outlined what people can make of the information. Out of curiosity, I decided to compare the article to Fox News, one the of most infamously biased news sources commonly consumed in the US. I didn’t have to look far. Fox News’ top story, featured in a massive font, was entitled “PRESSURE IS ON TRUMP: Clinton, Kaine release 2015 tax returns, call on Republican candidate to follow suit”. The article immediately frames itself in the light of an intense battle, intentionally using words that connote aggression and competition. The majority of the article was spent underscoring how Clinton was releasing her taxes as an attack on Trump and reminded readers multiple times that she claimed to be broke upon leaving the white house, but continues to make millions of dollars. The entire article read more like a celebrity gossip story. The stark difference between two articles borne from the same event would have been astounding, were it not so commonplace. Fox News, and many other news sources, turn news into aggressive and exciting entertainment that skirts facts and advertises an ideology. NPR, on the other hand, shows a lack of bias and makes current events accessible to the public by providing in-depth analysis on the history and prevalence of an event. As a political person, I find NPR’s dedication to informative, accessible, and relatively unbiased political coverage to be refreshing from the modern hyper-evolving breed of entertainment news media.

 As a prospective political science major, politics is a constant source of intrigue. I registered to vote at 17 to participate in a local Democratic caucus. I ran the caucus as both a Permanent Chair and a Precinct Captain. I changed my voter registration to non-partisan after Senator Sanders dropped from the race and turned my focus to working with my local Democrat organization to form a non-partisan political discussion group for youths of all ideological backgrounds. I recognize that I identify with traditionally liberal ideology, but I do not associate myself with any one party unless it is a prerequisite for political participation. I prefer my news on politics to be unbiased and analytical from a historical and political science perspective rather than an ideological one. However, my use of UN News is a more accurate reflection of my political intrigue than US-based news like NPR.            

After my noontime scroll through the NPR app, I made my way to the UN News app. UN News provides non-western-centric international perspective on issues outside of headline-making drama. Instead, UN News covers prevalent current events around the globe and consistently reports on human rights abuses and climate change, two topics which are the foundation of my personal political ideology. UN News is a trustworthy source for international issues few other news sources cover. This afternoon, the first article in the “top stories” section of the website headlined “Security Council approves regional protection force for UN mission in South Sudan”, followed by “Diary from Syria: An eyewitness account of broken families, grief and survival” and “Threat of Wildfires Expected to Increase as Global Temperatures Rise”. Within three articles UN News covers the conflict occurring in two nations as well as a global disturbance that has consistently been a problem for decades. These topics fall in and out of intrigue in popular American-based news media and get overlooked or forgotten. UN News centers itself on international turmoil outside of America and the West, which allows for more perspective. The most consistent themes in UN News coverage are international human rights, global infrastructure, and developments in climate change and environmental policy worldwide. UN News reminds readers that problems still exist even if popular news outlets don’t cover them or move their journalism to more consumable topics. Being well informed on these issues is of personal importance to me because of their massive impact on global well-being that most people are only vaguely aware of.          

The reason UN feels so different from other news outlets is the lack of motivation for narrowcasting. Narrowcasting, the transmission of information to a relatively small audience defined by special interest, is commonly accepted because it validates ideologies to comfort consumers. I am not looking for comfort or validation. Rather than seeking out news media that adapts the facts to appease an ideology, I prefer to adapt my ideology to the facts. As a result, finding unbiased and accurate news outlets remains hugely important to me. I recognize that no news source can be completely unbiased, but seeing the glaring differences in coverage between NPR and Fox News is enough to convince me that I am not as subject to manipulation and narrowcasting as those who subscribe to more biased news media. As a result, I believe I have a deeper and more coherent understanding of current world events.   

         Seeking out unbiased and honest news media can be challenging and tedious, but I believe it is a key factor in remaining a well-informed individual capable of making decisions and forming opinions based on facts rather than ideology. Without news media that covers relevant topics people submit to the whims of aggressive, entertainment-tinged news outlets that intentionally manipulate and appeases the public’s preconceptions in order to breed ignorance. NPR and UN News consistently provide news coverage that delves into issues deeper than made-for-TV political feuds and celebrity entertainment by providing facts and analysis on a broad number of prevalent topics. I recognized early on in my life that news is made intentionally difficult to navigate and find truth in, but learning to traverse the prejudice and look deeper into news media is a small and necessary factor in staying well-informed, educated, and aware of constantly developing global issues.       

-Grace     

 Works Cited 

Montanaro, Domenico. “3 Reasons We Care About Politicians’ Taxes.” NPR. National Public Radio, 12 Aug. 2016. Web. 12 Aug. 2016.

Associated Press. “PRESSURE IS ON TRUMP: Clinton Releases Tax Returns, Presses Trump to Follow Suit | Fox News.” Fox News. FOX News Network, 12 Aug. 2016. Web. 12 Aug. 2016.

UN News Centre. “Security Council Approves Regional Protection Force for UN Mission in South Sudan.“ UN News Center. UN, 12 Aug. 2016. Web. 12 Aug. 2016.

Jakob Kern. "Diary from Syria: An Eyewitness Account of Broken Families, Grief and Survival." UN News Centre. UN, 12 Aug. 2016. Web. 12 Aug. 2016.

"Threat of Wildfires Expected to Increase as Global Temperatures Rise – UN."UN News Center. UN, 12 Aug. 2016. Web. 12 Aug. 2016.

[zoe-and-grace]

Land of the Free  by Zoe

No child in the USA leaves elementary school without being told that we are the greatest country in the world. It isn’t always done outright or explicitly, and is more often a quiet but omnipresent hum in the background of our minds. I remember a tiny towhead joining the squeaky intonation of our pledge of allegiance, more concerned with being a mermaid than pledging anything to anyone. I remember learning about the start of the new world with the courageous Christopher Columbus who made a silly mistake and had no clue where he actually was. I remember learning about the Revolutionary War and the Civil War, where our trusty former presidents stood up for freedom and justice and freed the colonist, freed the slaves. I cannot remember how many times they must have told me we were free. As I grew older the word free began to blur before my eyes, and the red white and blue cloth it was stitched into grew faded and grimy. These past few years, patriotism had been elusive and I have grown cold and cynical in regards to the magic our society spins around the name and heritage of our country. Many have a hard time grasping what I mean when I say I am not patriotic, but I do not hate our country and what it stands for. In the tumultuous time I am experiencing, it is an imperative that I clarify. I was notorious throughout school for being an avid and voracious student. I adored learning, and savored each success even in subjects I despised. With the knowledge that I absorbed came an understanding that everything I had been taught was wrong. It wasn’t the obvious sort of wrong that comes with red marks and amendments and correction. It was as if someone had taken the truths of our nation and blotted out things that were too ugly for us to remain who we claimed to be, or as if every time someone looked too closely, they turned their heads, murmuring niceties and justifications until it was all better. All that we have been told has been laced with the assumption that we are the best and we always have been, and even if an ambiguous someone made an error, it only contributes to our greatness. This bovine excrement makes me furious. Our existence has brought misery to the land of the free that we call home. You see, there were already people here and our ancestors slaughtered them. They destroyed centuries of culture and civilization with disease and guns and imperialism. Columbus was a murderer who raped and tortured the natives. These people were stripped of who they were and kicked out of their homes. Our country was built on the backs of slaves brought to generate profit. The documents that shape our government and proclaim us a free nation for the people and by the people were penned by men who owned people. We have codified again and again that certain people aren’t people. After a bloody war, more fought for the Union than freedom, we stole the humanity of the humans we stole. Women were not enfranchised citizens until this last century, and even after that we were cowed by society wide assumptions of our weakness and incompetence. We claimed to welcome any questing soul, searching for a life of liberty and the pursuit of happiness at the cost of only their hard work. And then? We alienated them through back-breaking labor, and discrimination. I have been taught that our bloody past has been atoned for, even if some of us still cherish the poison that caused it. As always America has defeated injustice from within and become even stronger. I see these victories we have accomplished and I see the unity that they have brought. However, unity is a tricky bastard and is never absolute. For every leap we have completed in civil liberties and rights, we have had a steady roar of regression. Americans are so proud to place their egalitarian democracy on a star spangled pedestal and decorate it, that they don’t see the chains than inhibit and encumber us. It’s so easy to erase the blemishes from our collective memory and forget that there are those who keep the old brutality alive. Bruises fade, wounds close, and the salty stench of sickness slowly dissipates from the air we breath and settles like a shroud upon the graves of those we lost in the battle for freedom. Until our uncanny rage is triggered by the screech and lurch of a new tragedy. This world conjures new and horrible ways to test our grips and shake the foundation of all we know and suddenly the peace we thought we had is torn to shreds, and the festering wounds beneath our weary bandages are open to the scorch of the present. Pain and rot do not disappear into the grey of the past simply because they have passed. Minorities and women and the disabled and the poor continuously have their suffering erased by the decoration of our country. The past is used as a trophy rather than a lesson. By idolizing the idea of us we ignore the actual us, the blood of the citizens living and breathing and pulsing through the veins of this society. I don’t propose we tear down everything we stand for. I don’t resent our essential infrastructure because a representative democracy constantly improved by the efforts of it’s people is better than anything else any human has come up with. Modern society is truly the product of eons of development. There are people out there dying under the blade of their own governments weighted by a heavier fate. I don’t resent the comfort people find in calling this country home and working for it’s wellbeing. I resent hypocrisy. There are people living here that do not feel safe. We have faults in our system. No single person holds the key to the truth. I dislike the way that we cling to our traditions, treating our national heritage as holy and our motives as utmost. There is a fine line between respecting those who came before us, and being wary of their pitfalls, and idolizing them, immortalizing them as half-deities. We glorify the ultimate mass murderer- war- claiming to respect our soldiers but all the while erasing them as individuals and instead clinging to delusions of grandeur. We paint these pictures of the “real” America, a beautiful America that is easy to plaster on the walls of Kindergarten classrooms. There is a beautiful and vibrant world out there, full of diverse cultures and billions of individuals we aren’t even aware of. It isn’t perfect by any means. The reality we have built is as twisted as the organisms who built it. We have to own our faults and acknowledge the scars to foster a future worth hoping for, and covering them up with jingoism erases the soul of us. I am not patriotic. I don’t love this country. I love the people in it, the true USA. We aren’t a smattering of archaic monuments and outdated ideals. We are a breathing, evolving entity, and only a piece of this immense puzzle. And we don’t own freedom like we’ve tried to own everything else.