Coursing Through Chaos

I’m experiencing intermittent paralysis.
One moment I’m ready for the fight at our feet, and the next I’m unable to think at all.

The more conversations I’m having with white people, the more I am convinced that the time for talking is over. What is left to discuss?

I sit in the living room with my husband after the kids have gone to sleep.
Only the glare of the television-flashing with each loud bang-lights our night.
Protesters are running everywhere.
Journalists are being targeted.
Peace seems to be the enemy in this war.

I look at my husband—we know what this is.

He is not Black, but he has heard and seen countless big men kill indiscriminately to preserve
their image of toxic masculinity throughout Latin America.
My mother-in-law fled civil war in El Salvador in the mid ‘80’s to create a life for herself because a big man would’ve rather seen her dead than free.
The war on my Black people here in the U.S. looks a little different,

but it has a lot of similar hallmarks:
economic depression, mass incarceration, and police murder with impunity.

We watch the news not for updates, but for signs that the moment has finally come where we have to flee our home--faithful that we will recognize that moment when it comes.

And every moment before that moment is a mix of the most amazing highs and the lowest lows. Highs in which I’m present and grateful for each breath

Because the weak man in the white house has the nuclear codes and may just blast California
to oblivion so I might as well enjoy each day.

Lows where I seek falsehood in the statement I just made and searching--searching, find none.

I reach heights unknown because I know that inevitable death gives way to inevitable birth,

And this nation’s rebirth—under a new constitution—could be a shining light for humanity.
And, in the next moment, I weep uncontrollably because the beauty I see when I close my eyes Seems so far away when I open them again. I feel as if I’ve finally internalized
the wisdom of the caged bird singing.

After the news, we look up places we can go where our Afro-Latino children can be safer.
The borders are closed to all but essential travel. We may have to fly.
But there’s a pandemic, and our two-year-old won’t keep his mask on for more than two minutes.

Which countries have control of covid? If we risked it, where would we go?
Are there visa requirements? Could we work in the new place?

Well, between us, we speak Spanish, French, German, and a little Arabic.

Would we have to get an embassy job to travel?

Can we afford it?

If not, what do we have to give up/cash in/crowd source to make it happen? Will we ever see our families again?

It’s not just tonight, but every night and most days that we try to navigate an uncertain future.

When the "big man" in the white house holds the Bible upside down—a prop in the devil’s latest
production—I look at my husband and our eyes agree that the moment to flee may come sooner than we thought.

In a glance, we decide that we don’t have to tell the kids yet. They are four and two. If we tell them now it will just scare them, and there’s no need to scare them until there’s a need to scare them. So we agree to smile and be as present as possible. But they know. They don’t want us to be separated from them for a single moment because they sense our fear, and they hear pieces of our conversations.

So we try to distract them.

We build a fort in the living room and make cakes from scratch.
We water the plants and watch them grow.

All the while, we keep a tent, sleeping bags, plates, an emergency kit, and enough cash to get out of town nearby.
Ready. Always ready.

And we are still working: still taking meetings and supervising students; still answering questions about the present climate. In my capacity as a leader, people are still looking to me to lead when all I want to do is hold my babies and rest before each moment—which could be the last moment—ends. I thank God that we still have income but query if the work we do is the work that really matters? One line of work feeds my soul, but the present climate drains me such that
the things that used to fill my soul are no longer sufficient.

As the militarized police gain, I see genuine shock on white people’s faces.

Is this the police brutality Black people have been telling us about? Can it really be this bad?
I see the realization and the sadness and the desire to help. And then I get a call asking for more conversation. And I wonder if they are going through any semblance of what I am going through.
Are they paralyzed with depression and fear?

Do they know where this nation is headed and how bloody it can get it?

Are they envisioning that moment when they have to take a loyalty pledge or risk disappearance or termination? If they were even close to where my husband and I are, wouldn’t they also know that the time for talking is over?

It has taken me about three months to fix my mind to sit down and start writing--
three months to even begin processing the pain and turn silent cries into words.
But I never stopped working for change. I feel as though I can’t until I can be confident that the next wave to take up this fight is motivated by the same things that I am.
If not, they may settle for something less than freedom.

I try to empathize—I know these things can take time.

But, as the events leading up to our world’s most awful conflicts repeat themselves, mere conversations until we vote seem certain to ensure that history will indeed repeat itself.

The time is now for change.
And I’m not talking anything radical.
I’m talking about a new constitution with housing, education, healthcare, family unity, free speech and basic income guaranteed.
I’m talking about human rights as the foundation for all our rights.

Black lives have always mattered.

Black people have always fought to make this nation live up to its ideals.

I’m beyond exhausted.

I’m ready to let go of the burden of carrying and maintaining this nation and will instead place my energy into building a new America for our children.

If you’re at where I’m at, let’s write a new constitution for a new America.

Let’s use all of our creative energy to turn this nation from chaos and darkness to focused light. Let’s find opportunity in this democratic experiment that failed when it’s founding documents excluded humanity for Black people.
Let’s turn our failure into triumph and show every enemy of peace that they will not prosper.

My faith calls me to this task for, if I want to be like God, I must first make light.

We can re-birth a nation.
Mothers of the world, let’s unite and do what mamas do best:
Build a better world for our babies.
Orale,
Yella,
Let’s get it, let’s go!