The Sin of Hope

I’m sitting in my chair and I’m remembering. I’m remembering what we all made ourselves forget in the ashes of 2016. I’m remembering what we decided not to see as we prepared ourselves for war, beat our myopic plowshares on sterner anvils, broke open the wooden chests we’d buried and pulled forth the tunic and rapier. I’m remembering how deep the tree roots go.

The South is not a place. The South is memory. The South is where no one asks questions because they already know the answer.

Yesterday, a red state stayed red. Stubborn and vicious and so deeply afraid of the reckoning they saw coming. The fear that someone who doesn’t look like me is going to have power over me and the memory of how I’ve treated those people when I had power drove them to choose the odious, the shameful, the vile.

We knew this would happen. We grew out of the same earth, we are warped by the same cradle-lessons. We knew, but we made ourselves forget. We made ourselves believe that justice and victory could be claimed.

I’m glad we did. I am proud. I live in Georgia and I am ruled by sundry villains and humdrum evil. But I‘m sitting in my chair and I’m remembering. I’m remembering the tunic and the rapier, the anvil and the roots of the tree.

We are made of the same earth as our foes. We are made of lies and memory and will. We do not forget.

We do not forget. We are stubborn and vicious and so deeply afraid. We are the reckoning, we are a new memory.