When We Remember These Nights

I had a beautiful sweet post about my beautiful sweet son, but I don’t have it in me right now. Before I read the poem below on Friday night, I said, “Every time something shitty happens in this country, I feel an outrage that seems quaint when the next thing happens.” On Sunday, the body of seventeen-year-old Nabra Hassanen was found in Sterling, Virginia, near the mosque where so many of my family’s important events have occurred. And again, my old fear feels quaint and innocent. We have to keep making noise though. I think? I don’t know what the fuck we’re supposed to do.

All I seem to know to do is to cry all morning while typing emails and trying to behave like a human being in a world that feels full of monsters. If you see me today, tell me everything will be okay. And forgive me when I can’t quite believe you.

If you have the privilege of voice, please speak out against hate. Maybe it saves a life. Maybe that life belongs to one of these kids. I am so fucking scared for all of them.