They Think They Know Us. They Don’t.

They think they know us. But they don’t.

They think they defeated us. They’re right. But what they don’t know is we’ve been defeated thousands of times before. We’ve survived cages, shackles, and collars. We’ve survived hundred-mile marches, genocidal massacres, and sadistic boarding schools. We’ve survived the slave block, the whipping post, and countless nightly visits from the master. We’ve survived burning stakes and drowning lakes; banishment and dismemberment. We’ve survived hair cutting, genital cutting, feet cutting, and face cutting. We’ve survived marriage to the wrong gender, bearing our fathers’ children, and watching our babies raised by strangers. We’ve survived legal rapes, sham trials, and medieval inquisitions. We’ve survived bayonets, bullets, and batons.

We’ve survived. Not only are we still here, but we laugh at jokes, smile at babies, dance with joy, make passionate love, and create breathtaking art. We’re still here, and we’re alive.

They think we’re weak. They’re wrong. Yes, we doubt, we question, and we grieve. But that’s because we’re strong enough to wobble. Because we have a solid center to return to. Because we have warm fires to gather ‘round and compasses that work. We are snowflakes that amass in enormous drifts and snowcaps that water every crop and quench every thirst.

They think we’re cowards. They’re wrong. We don’t storm the building, break through windows, or shit in hallways because we’re brave enough to face the truth. We don’t need a lie to explain away the pain. We don’t need to fight back to win.

They think they know us. They don’t. But we know them.

They think it’s over. They’re wrong. These are not the closing credits, but an intermission. This is not the end of the trilogy, but the middle of an endless franchise. This is not a period but a comma. This is not the final chapter but one book out of numerous volumes.

They think we’ll submit. They’re wrong. Time and again we’ve thrown off the burkas, veils, chains, and chastity belts. Time and again we’ve fled “comfort” houses and violent homes. Time and again we’ve escaped the labor camps and plantations; the reservations and encomiendas. Over and over, we’ve reclaimed our power after our bodies were their choice.

They think we’re vanquished. They’re right. For now. Then we tore down the Berlin Wall one Thursday morning. We defied tanks in Tiananmen Square, snipers in Tlatelolco, and billy clubs at Stonewall. We stormed the beach at Normandy and bloodied the green of Gettysburg. We toppled Nicholas II, overthrew Louis XVI, and defeated George III. We ran knotted cords between pueblos and ousted Spaniards armed with gunpowder and steel. We painted our bodies blue and waged war on the Romans from the trees.

They think they know us. They don’t. Not only do we refuse to die, we know our ancestors’ names. We still carry their genes and their dreams.

They think we’re temporary — that we’ll disappear. They’re wrong. We are the papyrus scrolls rescued by Egyptian scholars from the burning library at Alexandria. We are the gilded books scribed by cloistered monks while plague and war ravaged the countryside. We are the martial arts disguised as capoeira and practiced under the slavedriver’s nose. We are the orishas carried by Yoruba across oceans, cotton fields, and dark huts to 21st century cities.

We are the curanderas, parteras, seers, and herbalists who’ve always healed the sick and midwifed the babies forgotten by patriarchy. We are the underground railroad conductors and benevolent coyotes who transport the persecuted out of the crosshairs and into freedom. We are the queer and trans fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, preachers, teachers, senators, and soldiers who love who we love — even in shadows, closets, and camouflaged clothing.

They think they know us. They don’t. We’ve always been here, and always will be.

They think we need their permission. We don’t. We’ve always built our own dwellings, our own communities, and our own systems. We’ve always made our own living, our own music, and our own peace. We’ve always communicated despite suppression, learned despite exclusion, and loved despite prohibition. We’ve always found freedom in opting out — even amid the most brutal repression and most blatant lies.

We will do it all again. They don’t know us.

They think we need them. We don’t. But we know they need us. We plant, raise, and harvest the food. We pack the boxes, load the shipping containers, and drive the trucks. We descend the mineshafts and pump the oil rigs. We fix the wiring, repair the pipes, revive the engines, and build the walls. We enter the data, write the code, and solder the motherboards. We bear, raise, and teach the children. We buy the products, spend the money, and stock the shelves. We attend the births, mend the broken bodies, mop the brows, wipe the butts, and medicate the dying.

They think we forgot how powerful we were. They’re right. But we just remembered.