I got out of bed this morning because of all those who had to get out of bed before me:
Martin and Coretta, the day after his home was bombed. (What did they tell the children?)
My father, every day of his young life in Lowndes County, Alabama.
John Lewis, after nearly escaping death on the Edmund Pettus bridge.
My ancestors, who were dragged to the U.S. in chains,
laid flat like chattel on ships… and survived.
They survived and got out of bed each morning.
I am sick and tired and grieving and ready to quit this country.
But I got out of bed, shamed by the thought of letting these ancestors down.
For now, that's how I am getting through this day.