For Kiya,
The night before the inauguration we were discussing plans to wear all black the next day as a silent protest. You were nervous and a little scared because many of your friends and classmates were Trump supporters and had been vocally supporting his hateful ways. You told me how you didn't understand how Donald Trump could make America great again. You asked me point blank "When was America ever great?" At the time I didn't know how to answer. Not because I didn't believe it. I think the United States of America is a wonderful country. It's the ugly, brutal, nasty bits that can make it hard to see the goodness much less the greatness. You are so young, raised entirely in a post 9/11 world, a culture of fear, and a country divided. It would be easy to be a cynic and decide that nothing you did could possibly matter. I want you to believe this country is still worth fighting for even in the reign of Trump. No, especially in the age of Trump. So I feel I owe you an answer to your question. When was America great? Always, because it can't be broken down into this year or that month. It's more of what makes America great. The American people, flawed and fallible though they are, make this country great.
We are experiencing the birth of The Resistance, continuing the struggle of the freedom fighters and revolutionaries that came before us. We have a legacy to protect. We are tending the garden of democracy's history. Planting our own seedlings while nurturing those we inherited. Protecting those in bloom when the elements turn hostile. There stands the tree of liberty first watered with tea brewed in Boston harbor and the blood of patriots. Rugged and weathered the trunk scarred from attacks with bullets and blades, blistered by fire, losing branches in violent storms, enduring the rare brutal winter when it seemed the sun would never return and still it's roots push deeper and spread farther.
Walk through the old grove of the abolitionists tended carefully and often in secret until it could no longer be contained. Mahogany and ebony are thick here along with Douglass firs and a garrison of beech trees. White pines and poplars with branches from which once hung strange fruit. These are rough, knotty and gnarled, pocked from canon ball and musket shot. Beneath them a ground cover of bright red moss for so much blood was spilled that the soil couldn't hide it all. Dark and ugly things breed here too, twisted and purple containing poison. Even after we rip them out by the roots we know they'll return another season when the wind blows the seeds again this way.
Wander through the orchard of the suffragettes sprouted from small seeds of Truth. Fed by the waters of Seneca Falls, life encases you here. Many trees already heavy with fruit others just beginning to bloom. Ida roses bloom along a stone path. Black eyed Susans, gloriosa daisies, small sunflowers that have spread to every corner of our nation flourish here. Bright and bold, hearty and healing often buzzed by butterflies creating a beautiful spectacle for such a small thing. Elizabeth clematis a vigorous vine that blooms in profusion. A quick climber it spreads and finds neglected spaces where the air needs stirred. While there have been those who seek to plunder and harm here and the weeds of misogyny must be vigilantly watched for, every season new sprouts push up towards the sun to nourish the next generation.
Before us sprawls the meadow of the American dream. Seedlings and spores from across the world. Refugees on the wind or the sea. Pitaya, sage and dahlia meets Irish moss and wandering Jew. Amongst the cornflowers, tulips, and thistles you'll stumble across a calm pond of floating lotus beneath a ginkgo tree. A clutch of coora flowers, bold birds of paradise, each new addition is first called invasive and some will rush to stamp it out before it can take hold. Some may die but many more will grow roots intermingling until we can scarcely remember a time they weren't here. Look a little closer to see beneath the lavender and Tudor roses the severed stumps of ancient redwoods desecrated in the name of progress. Wielding savagery and saws clear cutting noble and glorious forests and stripping mountains bare. Preserving a few isolated pockets promising this time to leave them unharmed. Sowed the land and tried to cover the shame, but the earth did not forget her children leaving the willow to weep.
Reaching the outer edges there are sounds of new work being done. First catching the eye a surprising shock of cherry blossoms in what looks to be lost ruins. Chrysanthemums and concrete scars on the shores of Tule Lake. Granada pomegranates grown by the Gila River shrubbery mulched with heartbreak and hay. In the shadow of Heart Mountain the garden grows anew. We will not allow the vines and thickets of thorns to take this land. We are reclaiming it to remind us and future generations what happened here and to vow never again.
Cross a painted creek on a bridge constructed from railroad ties, mining cabs and Homestead steel each shoreline bathed in red poppies. Work began in this section near fifty years ago and every time we think we've finished we find there is more work yet to do. Follow a trail of time smoothed little rocks lined proudly with daisies. Majestic magnolia trees that beneath blossom roses, Moses lily, African violets and yellow carnations next to the often turbulent waters come down from Mount Dubois and Wilkins Peak. Kingfishers and black and orange splashed monarchs perched in mangroves from Port of Spain. Life comes at you in sighs and bursts.
Leaving behind the peaceful paths of remembrances into the often chaotic terraces of today. A stonewall strung with brilliantly colored wisteria and trumpet vine near a small dell fragrant with marigold, lily of the valley and shepard's purse. A copse of willow, palm and myrtle to remind us the care of this sacred space belongs to us the living. Strawberry patches and blackberry brambles pollinated by splendid shimmering migrating hummingbirds. Lovely Miss Lucys and delicate pink and white Alice carried here from another plot mix with the wildflowers forget me nots, Indian paintbrush, bluebonnets and blazing stars. snapping twig and a rustle signals the winds have shifted and clouds hang heavy and low. Nasty weather approaches with lightening splitting the sky. Hailstones hurl to earth as the air turns angry whipping and wailing making it difficult to remain upright. We bring forth our barricades and storm shutters. Forged from fetters in Charleston and bridge ties in Selma. Scrap metal shell casings at Wounded Knee and Harper's Ferry melted down with pick axes from Ludlow and Rock Springs. Tempered in blood and sharpened on the pillar of the Constitution. We stand against the storm as we have many times before
So to answer your question, when was America ever great? It's great every single day. It's great every day that we are free to fight against injustice. It is great when a family opens their home to runaway slaves or Syrian refugees. It is great when women refuse to shut up and sit down but instead demand a right to vote or the agency over their own bodies. It is great when miners strike to be paid in actual money instead of company scrip or when unions fight for workers rights and safety in court. It is great when black voices rise up to say separate is not equal and that their lives matter. It is great when love wins and angels in Orlando protect the grieving from those who hate. It is great when you make a stand no matter how small or potentially unpopular whether silently or loudly. This is our garden. This is our democracy. This is our America and it has always been great. Protecting the legacy, preserving the future, we will persist.