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Darrell's avatar

She Who Stirs The Storm

In my mother's time, good girls wore

gloves to church & didn't ask questions

when men spoke. I learned early: some kinds

of survival meant playing dead.

Let me be clear: I was raised

on Wonder Bread & nuclear drills,

taught to trust the government

would save us. Now, at seventy-three,

I recognize the taste of ashes

in democracy's mouth. How history

folds like a flag, neat triangles

of forgetting. In the kitchen,

my wife reads headlines

like obituaries. We who fought

for marriage now watch them debate

if we deserve to keep it. Funny

how rights feel solid as marble

until they crack. Until you remember:

marble breaks too. Everything

America taught me about permanence

was a story about power. Even now,

they're rewriting the books, scrubbing

clean the chapters where we bled,

where we won, where we named

ourselves sacred. The young TikTok addicts

don't remember how we danced

in the streets when the Supreme Court

said our love was legal. How we wept,

mascara running like ink

down the pages of history.

Now we're back to watching

them deliberate our humanity

in marbled halls. Back to that old

familiar taste: fear mixed with fury,

bitter as my grandmother's

bone-deep certainty that silence

keeps you safe. But safety

was always a white woman's myth,

like believing progress

moves in one direction.

This morning, my neighbor

takes down her rainbow flag.

Says she's too old for fighting.

I understand: some bones

get tired of breaking

against the same walls.

Some hands forget

how to make fists.

But my body remembers

every march, every protest,

every friend lost to silence

& stigma. Remember: I was raised

to be a good girl, to speak

only when spoken to. Now

I'm speaking to no one,

watching it all burn

from my comfortable chair,

in my comfortable house,

my white skin still a passport

to certain kinds of safety.

Let them have what they chose:

this bonfire of democracy,

this funeral of facts.

I'm too old to save them

from themselves. Too tired

to explain why history

isn't linear, why progress

is more fragile than flesh.

In the garden, my freckled hands

shake as I deadhead flowers—

everything beautiful requires

constant tending. Everything earned

can be lost. This too

is an American story:

how quickly we forget

the cost of forgetting.

Tonight, I'll watch the news

go dark, screen by screen.

Let them choke on the ashes

of what they burned.

I've got front row seats

to this empire's ending—

another good girl gone quiet,

watching it all come undone.

— Gloria Horton-Young

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Arlene Milon's avatar

Blanket pardon everyone involved (witnesses, prosecutors, lawyers, etc) in the January 6th investigation. It was a clear attack on our nation's capital to overturn a free and fair election. We all watched it happen live and listened to the hearings. Protect those brave Americans.

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