If I’m not talking about you, then feel free to move along. This isn’t a sermon. This isn’t coming from a smug place of superiority – I just had to remember to insert the word “of” in the previous sentence, I’m just that incapable, currently, of properly placing words to match this momentum. I’m not grinning in self-satisfaction, considering myself as anything other than who I am.

We’ve been conditioned, in this country. There is a dangerous take on individualism that pervades this space, one of the many reasons we’ve arrived where we are, that elevates the hero, single slayer, preacher, performer, the unique savior above all else. It’s pop culture, it’s national narrative, it’s the story we tell ourselves, both as ourselves and to each other.

There is a sense that nothing is worth doing for its own sake. That we’re not anyone until we’ve achieved status as a brand, a name anyone can pop off the top of their head, our face on a billboard. The story of one soul. As a society, we are trained to expect our own accolades, statues, multi-volume books based on our existence the one time we accomplished, intervened, showed and proved.

I’m old as hell, and come from a long line of activists. Though the term activist doesn’t even begin to cover it. My parents, older brother, were an integral part of the Democratically elected socialist revolution that took place during the early 70’s in Chile. The movement was massive, it was millions. And it was also brought down, to its knees, by a US funded military coup that brough Augusto Pinochet to power and ushered in an era of murder, torture, rape, and a list of disappeared individuals who many have never heard of.

And I’ve heard it all. Growing up, I sat and listened to these stories. There were no guides, cautionary playbooks, instructional manuals on how to talk to your children about the state of the existence, the gruesome foundation our world was built on, about power without limits, fascism, the absolute evil, and I don’t use the term evil lightly, that pervades our everyday lives.

As a result, I have also heard it all. There is a saying, remolded several times from its original utterance: If you’re not a rebel when you’re 25, you have no heart. If you’re not establishment by the time you’re 35, you have no brain. There is a contingent within this country, an older one to be sure, that we are all familiar with. Yes, it is a generational divide. Whether it’s white people who marched in solidarity during the 60s, or old guard black individuals who are unable to grasp the necessary intersectional respect to truly stand in solidarity with where we find ourselves now, it all comes back to the blight of narrative, the singularity of the singular.

“I didn’t march in the 60’s for THIS.”

I’ve heard it all. In my younger years, I felt the tug of such sentiments, and never had the wherewithal to come back over the top with the obvious flaw. If why you marched in the 60’s has anything to do with you, then the reason you marched in the 60’s was, and remains, only about you.

Many people compare current times to earlier moments of resistance. I have been present at many of the current protests, marches, rallies that have taken place around New Orleans. And I have to say, I am erring on the side of optimism. I don’t consider this to be a repeat, and I hope it isn’t, of a generation that marched in the 60’s and 70’s, voted for Ronald Regan in the 80’s, and then dove head-first into the 90’s under the auspices of stock-market guilt only to present a secondary revolution based on shuffling cards, politeness, and mild niceties over actual change.

I was there, in New Orleans, Duncan Plaza, June 11, 2020, when the rally took a sudden turn. Hundreds of people who were under the impression that maybe this would be business as usual, prevented the arrest of an individual who was cuffed, thrown into the back of a police cruiser, for no other reason than existing within the color of their skin. It worked. It happened. It was a testament to what is possible.

It was also the first time that many people present were present for such an altercation, possibly the first time showing up to wear the mantle of solidarity. I don’t need to be pedantic, explanatory, lay down the details of what it means to be part of such a moment. As the crowd moved away from the de-escalation, returned to the center of Duncan Plaza with the intent of continuing the work, I overheard two individuals, still wild in their hearts from the rush, adrenaline of what just happened, talking.

“We just did something.”

“We did.”

“We literally just stopped an unwarranted arrest.”

“We did that.”

Yes, we did. Whether on the frontlines, or as bodies proving that a community is more powerful than any state-sanctioned police action, yes. We did.

We did.

There is no possibility of transformation within the confines of narcissism. Within any movement, there will always be people who are under the impression that the universe centers around them. I know, am horribly familiar with the disembodiment of the individual who believes this. I grew up with far to many people who took on the persona of savior, self-appointed master, yes, master, of the times. You’ve all seen this person. They probably show up on your social media feed, and while you have no personal contact with them, you can just imagine the gravity with how they consider themselves. Their interest is not change. Flipping the script is not paramount to their existence. Rather, they are willed to act as activists, but only within their own intensity, story, driven to smash, break, destroy in the basest of the sense, to create a history for themselves.

Beyond the tactical, political, the everyday of dismantling an apparatus that has its roots buried so deep in the past that we must often squint to see its origins; beyond that, we, all of us, need to remember. Tell ourselves. This is not abut me. This is not about something as simple as you.

After a group of individuals, acting as whole, managed to de-arrest a person who the police had no business taking to prison, we retreated to the center of Duncan Plaza. We were told, you were told, yes. You should feel good about what you did. You should feel proud. You should feel the power that comes with with the possible. You should sing. You should dance. You should joy. You should kiss your friends once we get through this, it is fine, absolutely necessary. Fall all the fucking way in love with your friends, lovers, the strangers you stand with, march with, protect and respect.

But be prepared to not be remembered.

Be prepared. An entire generation failed this country based on the predication that they were the center of the world. But the world revolves around the sun. We all revolve around each other. Yes, you matter. Yes, your individual bodies, what you bring to the fight, matters. But when people down the road write songs, stories, the history of what is happening, you must be comfortable, aware, you have to absolutely be prepared to be us.

Be prepared to be we.

Be prepared to not be remembered.

The next time you rally, march, hold up a sign, look to your left. Look to your right.

Right now is right now.

They say the only word that cannot be spoken when telling a riddle is the answer to the question. For those of us finding it in themselves to rise up, you are not just part of history, you are the history itself.

Be prepared to not be remembered.

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