Hello, my name is Cassandra Montenegro. I use she and aa pronouns. I am a light-skinned Latina with my hair pulled back and a I guess cream or ivory colored top and uh a beautiful UUA background of a water lily. Today I hail from Rochester in your Central East Region as I am a member of the Central East Region Congregational Life Staff of the Unitarian Universalist Association. One of the most important gifts that Unitarian Universalism continually offers me is renewed ability and confidence to be more deeply engaged in communities seeking to do justice in the world. For many of us today, we find our hearts hurting and heavy along with our friends and loved ones, we may be feeling disconnected from what it has meant and could mean to live into our American values. Some are feeling isolated, marginalized, and betrayed. Recently, I was asked by the National LGBTQ Law Association to take part in a panel on the weaponization of religion, how faith-based case law and advocacy can support LGBTQ plus equality work. In this room, I witnessed the work of queer and trans attorneys and advocates for justice along with our cis, straight allies. There I listen to the stories of people of varying faith and non-faith-seeking traditions, including our own, centering and calling forth how we might further this liberatory work together.

Now I offer you what I offered them. A poem by Cuban poet, CubanAmerican inaugural poet laurate and our Unitarian Universalist Association's 2019 Ware Lecturer Richard Blanco.

It's from his book How to Love a Country.

America the beautiful again. How I sang, oh beautiful, like a psalm at church with my mother, her Cuban accent scaling up every vowel. Oh beautiful yet in perfect pitch, delicate and tuned to the radiant beams of stained glass light. How she taught me to fix my eyes on the crucifix as we sang our thanks to our savior for this country that saved us. Our voices hymns as passionate as the organ piping toward the very heavens. How I sang for spacious skies closer to those skies while perched on my father's sunbeat shoulders, towering above our first Fourth of July parade. How the timber through our bodies mingled, breathing, singing as one with the brass notes of the marching band, playing the only song he ever learned in English. How I dared sing it at assembly with my teenage voice cracking for amber waves of grain that I'd never seen. Nor the Purple Mountain majesties, but could imagine them in each verse rising from my gut. Every exclamation of praise I belt it out until my throat hurt. America and again America. How I began to read Nietze and doubt God, yet still wished for God to shed his grace on thee and crown thy good with brotherhood. How I still want to sing despite all the truth of our wars and our gunshots ringing louder than our school bells. Our politicians smiling lies at the mic. The deadlock of our divided voices shouting over each other instead of singing together. How I want to sing again. Beautiful or not, just to be harmony. From sea to shining sea with the only country I know enough to know how to sing for.

Blanco's poetry keeps surfacing at key moments in my life in this faith, providing guidance and grounding reminding me that I am not alone in this moment. And I thank you for that. Many blessings to you on this day, in this moment. May you and our people and our people's people be well.