If only we would carry what breaks us
"In order to rise from its own ashes, a phoenix first must burn.” - Octavia Butler
Voices of the Children is my love letter to the best of us—the children. It is born from the grief and frustration of those of us who have dedicated our lives to the care and protection of children, as we witness their voices silenced and their lives threatened daily. This is for the children—a place to hear their voices and tell their stories. Thank you for reading and honoring the lives of children as you do so.
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If I could carry it all, I would.
If I could carry the beauty of my children
lying in their beds,
breathing deeply,
eyes closed,
mouths slightly open,
bellies silently pushing and pulling,
I would never let it go.
If I could carry a conversation and in the midst, remain unaffected
by the deadened eyes,
the gaunt faces,
the sunken cheeks,
the emaciated bodies,
ribs poking, pleading, waiting, hoping for food,
I don’t think I would speak again.
If I could carry on with my life and
un-remember the children who no longer have one,
I would have to accept that I have died.
I would have to reckon with how
I exchanged my humanity for comfort,
I exchanged my empathy for ignorance,
I exchanged my voice for complicity.
Because they are never just children.
They are my children.
They are our children.
So how do we carry on and
ignore their screams
as intricate fusions of metal, concrete, and fire
incinerate their beautiful, fleshy bodies?
When did we transform?
Why did we change?
What caused our words of protest to get stuck in our throats?
How did we forget that movements require action?
If I could, I would choose the ebony night above me
over the gray clouds of ash filling their sky
reflections of the rubble where lives and dreams suffocated
under the weight of hatred and fear.
The fear of people who treasure
community more than control.
Yet there is no choice.
We cannot choose to see something else.
We cannot choose to feel something else.
We cannot choose distraction over doing.
We were robbed of that decision long ago
Lives are being erased so quickly,
with such intention,
that it seems unimaginable.
And then we open our eyes
and remember
It is real.
It is a reality that sits with me,
keeps me awake
burns my eyes and
tears my flesh open.
While knowing this is insignificant
when compared to the anguish and pain
of seeing everything you once knew completely shattered,
seeing lifeless children held so preciously,
because they were the joy that stood
beside the anger of a people
who refuse to let oppression sit them down.
Their spirits force those who have survived
to hold their head up,
and become the voices that were silenced.
To somehow find a foundation to stand upon
when it has been broken into small stones,
merging with tiny bones of bodies
that were so fragile and tender.
And in the overwhelm,
we disbelieve and
we wait for someone to make the change.
We can close our eyes,
we can shut out the sounds,
we can hide from the pictures,
but we must know that we are becoming the history
that they will read
And the children who lived will say,
Where were you?
Did you see it happen?
Did you see them?
Did you know?
What were you doing?
And how did you let it continue?
We are forced to carry both parts of ourselves—
the part with eyes wide open to the tangible horror that is staring at us,
with the part that tried to convince us
that what we've seen will stop,
that it will slow down,
that it will be fixed
eventually—
knowing that silence has never been the solution
to the problems that we must talk about.
Speaking will break us.
But living through it has already broken us
Carrying the truth
may break our families,
and destroy our friendships
but it will erase our fear.
We will be ignited
and unflinching
And as we break,
the pain will emerge,
and the remedy will be revealed
—
but only if we carry it
together.
If only we would.
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