My Heart is Broken

My heart is broken and I don’t know how to fix it. It breaks for the refugees; for the people that are crying out for help, for love, for a safe place to lay their head and the chance to take a deep breath. It breaks for the mothers, who look at their babies, surrounded by so much hatred and terror, the babies who have fallen asleep night after night to the lullaby of gunfire, and wonder what they can possibly do for their children. It breaks for the fathers, who know that, for once, they cannot protect their families, as they vowed do to at all costs. My heart breaks for the children, for the ones who have grown accustomed to the violence, to the hatred, to the pain. My heart is broken.

My heart breaks for the country I once felt so proud to call my own. It tears deeper and deeper with every headline, every breaking news alert, every executive order signed. My heart breaks as I realize that this is our fault; maybe not indirectly, but collectively, this is our doing. It breaks when I realize there are people who believe these actions are necessary and beneficial. It breaks for the people who are so blinded by their own ignorance that they fail to see the true destruction that has occurred. My heart is broken.

My heart breaks for the people who seem to have so quickly forgotten how each and every one of us arrived in this land. It breaks for the ones who forget, at one time, a person carrying their blood was a refugee. It breaks that it is so easily forgotten how our ancestors fled religious persecution, famine, disease, genocide, and found solace in this land. It breaks at the thought that the “land of milk and honey” is now the land of racism and hatred. My heart breaks for those who believe “America is for Americans” while forgetting what being an American is truly about. My heart is broken.

My heart breaks for the angels I met during my week in Immokalee, Florida. It breaks for the little ones who were so acutely aware of what this administration could do to them. It breaks for 8 year old Desani, who explained to me with such a matter of fact tone that, one day, her parents and brother could be taken from her, leaving her orphaned in the country they considered their safe haven. My heart breaks when I think of the mothers and fathers, their clothes stained by the pesticides, picking up their children after a long day of back-breaking work, all in the hopes of a bright future for the little ones. My heart breaks for those who have worked so hard, given up so much, and are still denied. My heart is broken.

My heart breaks for the children of our country. For the ones who are taught hatred and discrimination. For the ones whose minds are being formed by the images they see on TV and hear their parents discuss. My heart breaks for the ones being taught bullying is okay when the person is of a certain skin color, certain religion, or certain ethnic background. My heart breaks at the thought of the world these children are growing up in. My heart is broken.

My heart breaks for the native people. It breaks for the ones who have had so much taken from them; the ones who once called all of this land their own. It breaks at the thought of sacred ground being destroyed, of lives being upturned, of families no longer having claim to a land that has been theirs long before it was ours. My heart breaks for Standing Rock. My heart is broken.

My heart breaks for my friends of color. For the ones who live in fear of the blue and red lights. It breaks for the people who keep “I can’t breathe.” at the forefront of their minds. It breaks for the people who feel unsafe, especially when approached by those who take the oath of protection. My heart is broken.

My heart breaks for  the ones who wear the uniforms. It breaks for the ones who risked their lives to protect the ones they loved. It breaks for the ones who are missing holidays, missing brothers and sisters, and missing limbs, because they believed in the values of our nation. It breaks at the thought of how disappointed some of them must feel, how frustrated they must be. It breaks at the idea that our nation and its current ways have let down those who laid it all down for us. My heart breaks for the brothers in blue, the men in green, and all those serving us. My heart is broken.

My heart breaks for our future. It breaks for the world in which we live. It breaks for the ones who will come after us and the mess we have created for them. It breaks for those who will study the past and say “how did they let it get this bad? How did this come to be?” My heart breaks at the thought of leaving this world in such disrepair with no real reason other than, “we forgot how to love.” My heart is broken.

My heart is broken and I don’t know how to fix it.

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