2026

It’s 1:00 a.m., and I can’t sleep.

My chest is hitching now and again. There’s a knot in my throat. 

Sorrow, then rage. Then fear. Then rage again. And more sorrow.

To many of you, this will all sound like a paranoid fever dream. I get it. You grew up on the same “School House Rock” version of America that I did. Your history classes painted this Land of the Free in the best possible light, excusing centuries of atrocities with an optimistic, “Well, we wouldn’t do Manifest Destiny the same way today!”