To donate by check, phone, or other method, see our More Ways to Give page.
A line of homemade protest signs including a Black Power fist in a rainbow of stripes to support gay rights lay on the ground in Brooklyn on July 25, 2020.
It's okay for us to grieve in this moment. Let’s lend a shoulder, a hand, a smile, a tissue. And then let’s organize like never before.
I’m going to be honest with you all about my feelings. What voting has shown us is that no matter how hard we fight, we are in a losing battle. It has shown us that our bodies and lives aren’t important. It has shown us that freedom seems to be a mirage in a hot street that upon further inspection, is not water that can fuel our fight.
This grief feels different. This anxiety-inducing, depression-producing feeling has me terrified of the future. Walking through the airport in Orlando recently, I felt like I was being encapsulated by a crowd of people who abhor my existence. It reminds me of the anxiety I felt on a layover there after the shooting at Pulse. Even as I write this, I tremble as I remember being in Room 107 in Texas while the community identified the body of Tracy Single. It feels like isolation and despair and embarrassment. It feels like fear.
I am here to acknowledge though, that even in the face of fear, we can change things. Even in the face of fear, we can accomplish the impossible. As I say that, I think, “How, Ian? How can I do that in the face of the next four years of more hateful policies, bans, and rights being taken and potentially decades of lasting effects after?”
In the words of MLK, “Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” And that’s not this “kumbayah” type of love that doesn’t see people willingly placing oppression on us; it is more love for those who look, love, and identify with us. It is creating more unity and more resources. They were never coming to save us! We have always needed to be the ones to save ourselves.
As we move along through these next couple of months before the inauguration, know that our community is here to every Black, queer individual, as thought partners, resource sharers, and possibility strategists. Because despite the hopelessness we collectively feel right now, I’m reminded of the ACTUP activists, and the Black Lives Matter movement, and the Bayard Rustins, the words of Langston Hughes, the thoughts of Kimberle Crenshaw, the strategy of Dr. Charles Law, the advocacy of Monica Roberts, the campaign of Kamala Harris and you continuing to show up despite moments of grief.
I invite you to hear the words of Langston Hughes’ poem Harlem, “What happens to a dream deferred?"
"Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?”
I urge us in our grief not to allow our dream to be deferred, to sit by the wayside, to deny us the hope to see it fulfilled.
If not for us, for Trans teens not able to seek care. If not for us, for people who can have children who cannot make a choice on their own bodies. If not for us, for same-sex families in fear they will lose their rights. If not for us, for our future.
We are and have always been who we’ve been waiting for. Your presence on this Earth is hope personified.
Common Dreams is powered by optimists who believe in the power of informed and engaged citizens to ignite and enact change to make the world a better place. We're hundreds of thousands strong, but every single supporter makes the difference. Your contribution supports this bold media model—free, independent, and dedicated to reporting the facts every day. Stand with us in the fight for economic equality, social justice, human rights, and a more sustainable future. As a people-powered nonprofit news outlet, we cover the issues the corporate media never will. |
I’m going to be honest with you all about my feelings. What voting has shown us is that no matter how hard we fight, we are in a losing battle. It has shown us that our bodies and lives aren’t important. It has shown us that freedom seems to be a mirage in a hot street that upon further inspection, is not water that can fuel our fight.
This grief feels different. This anxiety-inducing, depression-producing feeling has me terrified of the future. Walking through the airport in Orlando recently, I felt like I was being encapsulated by a crowd of people who abhor my existence. It reminds me of the anxiety I felt on a layover there after the shooting at Pulse. Even as I write this, I tremble as I remember being in Room 107 in Texas while the community identified the body of Tracy Single. It feels like isolation and despair and embarrassment. It feels like fear.
I am here to acknowledge though, that even in the face of fear, we can change things. Even in the face of fear, we can accomplish the impossible. As I say that, I think, “How, Ian? How can I do that in the face of the next four years of more hateful policies, bans, and rights being taken and potentially decades of lasting effects after?”
In the words of MLK, “Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” And that’s not this “kumbayah” type of love that doesn’t see people willingly placing oppression on us; it is more love for those who look, love, and identify with us. It is creating more unity and more resources. They were never coming to save us! We have always needed to be the ones to save ourselves.
As we move along through these next couple of months before the inauguration, know that our community is here to every Black, queer individual, as thought partners, resource sharers, and possibility strategists. Because despite the hopelessness we collectively feel right now, I’m reminded of the ACTUP activists, and the Black Lives Matter movement, and the Bayard Rustins, the words of Langston Hughes, the thoughts of Kimberle Crenshaw, the strategy of Dr. Charles Law, the advocacy of Monica Roberts, the campaign of Kamala Harris and you continuing to show up despite moments of grief.
I invite you to hear the words of Langston Hughes’ poem Harlem, “What happens to a dream deferred?"
"Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?”
I urge us in our grief not to allow our dream to be deferred, to sit by the wayside, to deny us the hope to see it fulfilled.
If not for us, for Trans teens not able to seek care. If not for us, for people who can have children who cannot make a choice on their own bodies. If not for us, for same-sex families in fear they will lose their rights. If not for us, for our future.
We are and have always been who we’ve been waiting for. Your presence on this Earth is hope personified.
I’m going to be honest with you all about my feelings. What voting has shown us is that no matter how hard we fight, we are in a losing battle. It has shown us that our bodies and lives aren’t important. It has shown us that freedom seems to be a mirage in a hot street that upon further inspection, is not water that can fuel our fight.
This grief feels different. This anxiety-inducing, depression-producing feeling has me terrified of the future. Walking through the airport in Orlando recently, I felt like I was being encapsulated by a crowd of people who abhor my existence. It reminds me of the anxiety I felt on a layover there after the shooting at Pulse. Even as I write this, I tremble as I remember being in Room 107 in Texas while the community identified the body of Tracy Single. It feels like isolation and despair and embarrassment. It feels like fear.
I am here to acknowledge though, that even in the face of fear, we can change things. Even in the face of fear, we can accomplish the impossible. As I say that, I think, “How, Ian? How can I do that in the face of the next four years of more hateful policies, bans, and rights being taken and potentially decades of lasting effects after?”
In the words of MLK, “Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” And that’s not this “kumbayah” type of love that doesn’t see people willingly placing oppression on us; it is more love for those who look, love, and identify with us. It is creating more unity and more resources. They were never coming to save us! We have always needed to be the ones to save ourselves.
As we move along through these next couple of months before the inauguration, know that our community is here to every Black, queer individual, as thought partners, resource sharers, and possibility strategists. Because despite the hopelessness we collectively feel right now, I’m reminded of the ACTUP activists, and the Black Lives Matter movement, and the Bayard Rustins, the words of Langston Hughes, the thoughts of Kimberle Crenshaw, the strategy of Dr. Charles Law, the advocacy of Monica Roberts, the campaign of Kamala Harris and you continuing to show up despite moments of grief.
I invite you to hear the words of Langston Hughes’ poem Harlem, “What happens to a dream deferred?"
"Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?”
I urge us in our grief not to allow our dream to be deferred, to sit by the wayside, to deny us the hope to see it fulfilled.
If not for us, for Trans teens not able to seek care. If not for us, for people who can have children who cannot make a choice on their own bodies. If not for us, for same-sex families in fear they will lose their rights. If not for us, for our future.
We are and have always been who we’ve been waiting for. Your presence on this Earth is hope personified.