People have said that in many ways I am like my father, that is, stubborn to the core. And perhaps I am.
Stubbornly adamant.
Stubbornly obsessive.
But I also have and on many occasions, tried to be more like my mother, diplomatic.
Waiting, watchful, patient.
It has not been easy.
Because the world rewards the noisy, the nosy, the loudness rather than the meek.
Which I might add we have seen in full display and crassly so, this past election season and the past decade. But I digress.
It has been 400 days and one.
Violence still erupts in my home state.
Families still struggle to survive.
To mourn. And grieve.
And while we celebrate a victory of new proportions, and revel in the rush of a new hope, let us pause to remember the many and I mean, millions others, my kin included, that still await a new dawn.
One where our identity, our contributions aren’t questioned.
One where our mere entry does not warrant a cleansing thereafter.
One where our rightful protests are not seen as anti national.
One where we are not called refugees, terrorists, illegal immigrants.
My father lived and breathed a life of service as did countless others.
I do not need to justify that. Or explain it. Or seek your approval for it.
I do not.
And to that end. I speak.
And I hope you will lend your voice to mine ….
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