Civil Rights

February 9, 2026

WHAT AMERICAN IS, WHEN WE REMEMBER (Super Bowl XL – Bad Bunny)

America is not a gate.

It is a field—

wide enough for sugarcane to grow

where yard lines once pretended to be borders.

It is a song that refuses translation

because it does not ask permission to exist.

A mother tongue lifted into floodlights,

each syllable a hand reaching forward

instead of a fist held tight.

America is a child

looking up at someone who looks like him,

not because fame matters,

but because possibility does.

Because belief still survives

in the small, unguarded places.

It is a blessing spoken outward,

never hoarded.

A roll call of neighbors,

names said slowly, lovingly,

as if geography itself were a family album

creased by use,

kept close to the heart.

America is flags moving together,

cloth breathing in unison,

not competing for air.

It is color without apology.

It is history that did not arrive quietly

and never will.

America is the courage to stand joyful

while someone else calls joy a threat.

It is love so visible

that hate reveals its true size—

small, brittle, afraid of music.

It is not purity.

It is not silence.

It is not fear dressed up as tradition.

It is not the narrowing of the world

to fit a frightened man’s vocabulary.

America is a place where language becomes rhythm,

where culture is shared like food,

passed hand to hand,

where no one asks you to erase yourself

to be welcomed.

It is the understanding that belonging

is not something you win

by excluding others,

but something you deepen

by making room.

America is a homeland that says,

We are still here,

not as defiance,

but as devotion.

And when the world is watching,

America—at its best—

chooses to answer cruelty

with celebration,

division with invitation,

and hate

with a love so expansive

it cannot be shouted down.

This is the America worth handing to our children—

not wrapped,

not polished,

but alive,

singing in every language it has ever known,

standing together in the open,

unafraid of itself.

January 12, 2026

WHEN SEEING BECOMES AN ACT OF DEFIANCE

There are moments when a single death feels heavier than death itself—when it becomes a symbol, a question mark burned into the public conscience. The murder of Rene Nicole Good is one of those moments. Not only because a life was taken, but because of what followed: the silence, the distortion, the insistence that we look away from what our own eyes and instincts tell us is wrong.

Authoritarianism does not always arrive in boots and banners. More often, it comes softly, wearing the language of order, safety, and expertise. It asks for trust while dismantling accountability. It does not demand belief outright—it conditions it. It repeats its version of events until exhaustion replaces scrutiny, until doubt feels impolite, even dangerous.

What we should fear is not merely violence, but the erasure that follows it. When a government insists that its narrative supersedes lived reality, it is not asking for agreement—it is rehearsing obedience. “Believe only what we say, not what you see” is not a slogan of democracy; it is the oldest reflex of power afraid of the truth.

The danger is not that lies are told. Lies have always existed. The danger is when lies are institutionalized—when they are delivered with the authority of law, amplified by compliant media, and insulated from challenge by accusations of disloyalty. At that point, truth becomes a subversive act, and memory itself is treated as a threat.

History teaches us that authoritarian systems do not begin by banning speech; they begin by ridiculing it. They do not begin by imprisoning dissenters; they begin by discrediting them. They do not begin by denying reality; they begin by reframing it—selectively, strategically—until reality feels negotiable.

What happened to Rene Nicole Good forces us to confront a harder truth: that citizenship is not a passive status. It is an obligation. A democracy cannot survive on compliance alone; it requires friction. It requires citizens who are willing to sit with discomfort, to ask questions that have no immediate answers, and to resist the seduction of easy narratives.

Resistance does not always look like protest. Sometimes it looks like remembering. Sometimes it looks like refusing to repeat a lie, even when it would be simpler. Sometimes it looks like saying, quietly but firmly, “That is not what I see.”

The strength to resist begins internally. It begins with intellectual humility—the willingness to admit uncertainty—paired with moral courage—the refusal to surrender judgment. Authoritarianism feeds on fear and fatigue. It withers in the presence of clarity and solidarity.

We should fear any government that treats skepticism as betrayal, grief as inconvenience, and truth as a managed resource. But fear alone is not enough. Fear must sharpen resolve, not paralyze it.

A free society is not defined by the absence of power, but by the presence of limits—limits enforced by citizens who understand that democracy is not something handed down, but something held up, daily, by vigilance.

If they want us to believe only what they say and not what we see, then seeing clearly becomes an act of defiance. And remembering—especially those they would rather we forget—becomes an act of justice.

November 24, 2025

Proof of Life – Ida Zecco 11/4/2025 (The day after special elections)

Across the map, the lights came on again—

counties, cities, towns where hope had gone quiet,

now humming like power lines after the storm.

It wasn’t confetti or headlines,

it was breath—steady, defiant,

the sound of ballots sliding home.

They called them special elections,

as if democracy had been on pause,

as if this was some rehearsal.

But this was no rehearsal.

This was pulse.

This was heartbeat.

Every vote a drumbeat against the noise,

a reminder that even in exhaustion,

the people still rise,

still speak in the only language that cannot be silenced.

The color was blue, yes—

but it was also the color of persistence,

of tired hands refusing to let go of the rope.

From one coast to the next,

the country whispered and then shouted:

we are still here.

We are still choosing.

More than victories—

these were proofs of life,

lit candles in the rain,

a nation remembering itself

in the echo of a thousand small miracles called votes.

September 11, 2025

Remembering 9/11: Twenty-four Years Later

Twenty-four years have passed since that September morning when the sky was impossibly blue, and then turned to smoke and ash. In the days and weeks that followed, we were broken, but we were together. Neighbors reached across fences, strangers held one another in crowded vigils, firefighters became our heroes, and compassion rose like a second flag over ground zero. Our grief was immense, but so was our unity.

Today, that spirit feels far away. We are no longer a people who instinctively lean toward one another in times of pain, but a nation divided against itself—sharpened by anger, weaponized by politics. Violence has become routine, and each new act of bloodshed is not met with collective resolve but with polarization. Gun violence, once unthinkable at this scale, has been politicized into endless arguments, and the blame is always placed elsewhere—never on us, never on our unwillingness to act.

America was once known, however imperfectly, for its compassion, its courage, and its sense of social justice. On 9/11, the world watched a nation gather its wounded heart and hold it tenderly, refusing to be defined only by tragedy. Now, we seem defined by division. The ashes of ground zero remind us not only of lives lost but of a unity that has itself turned to ash.

If this anniversary means anything, it must be to remember that in our darkest hour we found one another—and to ask if we are still capable of that kind of grace.

September 9, 2025

The Thin Edge of Freedom

It never happens all at once. Democracies rarely fall with a single catastrophic blow; they wither, slowly, under the weight of small, “reasonable” compromises — the kind that seem harmless until, suddenly, they are not.

The recent decision by the United States Supreme Court to lift the ban on removing people from the streets based on “profiling” has been defended as a matter of “public safety” and “order.” But behind the sterile legal language lies something older and far more dangerous — the sanctioned power to define who belongs and who does not. Once we give government bodies the authority to decide, based on appearance, behavior, or circumstance, which human beings are worthy of dignity and which are not, we step onto a road we should know by heart.

Poland, 1939, is often remembered for its devastating end. But before the gas chambers and ghettos, before mass deportations and camps, there were ordinances. Small ones. Laws that allowed authorities to “remove undesirables” from public spaces. A subtle shift in language: “public safety,” “social order,” “economic burden.” These justifications opened the door for exclusion — first social, then legal, and finally existential. It began with people being pushed from streets, squares, and markets, labeled as “problems” rather than neighbors, citizens, and human beings.

We tell ourselves that America is different, that our institutions are stronger, that our democracy is permanent. But history warns otherwise. The most dangerous erosion of freedom comes not with sirens but with silence — when we accept incremental cruelty in exchange for the illusion of control.

This Supreme Court decision is not about homelessness alone, nor about urban safety, nor about the aesthetic order of our cities. It is about power — who wields it, and over whom. When our highest court grants legal permission to strip rights from the most vulnerable, we are participating in a reshaping of our national character. Each decision like this redraws the moral boundaries of our democracy.

The parallels to pre-WWII Poland are not exact, nor should they be overstated. But they are haunting enough to demand our attention. Back then, profiling didn’t start with religion or ethnicity alone — it began with poverty, vagrancy, and “unwanted” populations. The system learned, step by step, who it could erase without resistance.

The warning signs are here. A government emboldened to control public space by removing certain bodies. A judiciary increasingly aligned with ideological power rather than constitutional principle. A populace numbed by exhaustion, partisanship, and fear.

This isn’t hyperbole. It’s history, repeating in whispers before it ever shouts.

Democracy does not collapse in grand gestures — it crumbles under the weight of ordinary decisions made in the shadows of extraordinary consequences. The question before us is whether we will recognize these quiet tremors for what they are or wait, as so many once did, until the ground beneath us gives way.

For those who believe in freedom, equality, and the dignity of every human being, silence is no longer neutral. It is complicity.

June 9, 2025

Pride Month

Pride Month was not born of a need to celebrate being gay, but the right for our sisters and brothers to exist without persecution. It is a vital celebration of visibility, resilience, and the ongoing fight for LGBTQ+ rights. It honors the courage of those who have challenged discrimination, from the Stonewall uprising to present-day advocacy, reminding us that equality is neither inevitable nor complete. Pride Month is a statement: that every person deserves to live openly, authentically, and without fear. In recognizing Pride, we affirm the dignity of LGBTQ+ individuals and renew our collective commitment to justice, inclusion, and love.