Lately it has been the motto I fall back on whenever I feel like giving up.
I want more from my society. I don't want to live in one that bases legislation on fear of the other.
1/7
I don't want a society that doesn't educate its members on how to critically think about an issue, use fact-based sources or how to coherently argue a position.
2/7
I don't want to live in a society where I constantly have to explain why basic human rights like food, shelter and clean water should not be given a backseat so that a tiny percent of individuals can rake in more profits.
3/7
I don't want to live in a society where people instinctively reject the notion that WHAT WE DO AND WHAT WE SAY AFFECTS OTHER PEOPLE and that we should *care* about that.
4/7
I want to live in a society that by nature is cooperative and not competitive, and I know it is possible.
I want to live in a society that values human life more than money, and I know it IS possible.
5/7
I want to live in a society that designs its policies, infrastructures and other systems based on logic, facts, compassion, equity and equality. I KNOW it is possible.
6/7
I refuse to give up when I know that there's a better way and that it is within reach. More people are currently standing up and demanding change than I've seen in my lifetime. It IS possible.
Fight or die.
7/7
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Depending on your language, culture, geography, gender identity, et cetera, a name that seems unusual to you might be common elsewhere.
A familiar name that feels "intuitive" to pronounce—for you—depends on language(s) you speak & which names you hear used in your communities.
In a world where the writers most likely to be published—historically & today—have been English-speaking Whīte men,
the names we see most often in books are those which reflect the norms in *that* community: names of English or Latin origin—common for Whīte (Ānglo-Sâxon) folks.
"Writing a book there?" the café stranger asks, thumbing his novel.
"A journal," I say. I'd been assessing his shoes; dust coats his boots and cascades up Carhartt pant legs. Perhaps carpentry or construction—like my brother.
"There must be a lot happening in your life," he says,
gazing out the window. His tone is curious, friendly: "You're just writing away."
"I've always done it. Since I was 8."
"In the same book?"
"Different ones."
"Hm," he nods. "Maybe everything you've written will become a book. Your life story."
I smile. "I don't think my life's
that interesting."
He rubs his chin. "There's probably a purpose to it though, if it's something you've always done."
"I think about that. But I'm not sure what purpose there might be."
"We might not do things," he says, leaning back, "if we knew the future." He opens his novel.