In a world built to strip us of hope, hope itself becomes a radical act of rebellion.
That is why I wrote the Declaration to Continue, a document in three acts. Below is Act 1, presented line by line with images of those who looked directly at the world Empire had made and chose, nevertheless, to continue.
They beckon us to do the same.
We the People of the United States are called to continue the American Revolution.
For the American Revolution never ended.
It Continued.
Led not by kings but by Us.
By We the People.
By We the Uncrowned.
By We the Orphans.
Orphaned from our Fatherlands by choice.
Orphaned from our Motherlands by force.
Orphaned from our Great Mother by murder.
It Continued.
Through Fog that does not lift. Past every River that said no. Over every Ridge that said turn back. Through Texan Limestone to Granite where the Atlantic breaks white. From mist-covered Holler to unbroken Prairie. From red Mesa to frozen Tundra to volcanic Fire. From the Redwood Forest to the Gulf Stream waters. From Sea to shining Sea.
From Trails far older than their given names, worn into Earth by ten thousand years of footsteps. By the only peoples who are not strangers on this Land. Who have known the Beginning before the Beginning. Who have known this Ground as part of their very bodies.
It continued. And continued. And continued.
From conductors who walked the darkness both ways, until the last passenger was free. It continued.
From Black skin forced to build a White House, forced to build the very wall of Wall Street while being walled off from its payments and its promise. And from the Lion who roared: what, to the slave, is your Fourth of July?
Until hundreds of thousands answered with their lives. It continued.
From those who, after so-called “emancipation,” faced terrorists with ropes. Who faced heartbreak after heartbreak, until their hearts broke open into music that freed the world. It continued.
From those who gave the nation weekends, by refusing to work them. Who scrubbed the poison from our food and our factories. And who, in the name of Trust, broke the trusts. It continued.
From women starved of a Voice, who made their hunger the question, until the answer was law. It continued.
From the Strangers who fled Tyranny, crossing Oceans. Who laid the rails and dug the mines and stitched the garments and raised the skylines, yet slept outside the house they built. Whose Children — turned away at every gilded door, invented the humor that taught a nation to laugh at its alleged kings, dreamed caped gods onto newsprint, conjured cities of light on silver screens, and turned exile into remedy. It continued.
From those starved by dust and bread lines, who plunged the rot at the top into alphabet soup, who crossed Oceans to bury Fear, and came home to bury Want beside it. It continued.
From those who carried that freedom into a Dream, across bridges into dogs and batons and hoses. Led by a King with No Crown who made the law answer its own words. It continued.
From nations older than this nation, who mothered our Democracy into being and gave us We the People, only for their children to be stolen in return. Until the mothers gathered into one thunderstorm of mothers, shook the house that called the theft holy, and took their children back. Took their families back. Took the Sacred back. Took their future back, proclaiming: The Children are our Present. It continued.
From those who brought sound back to spring, reminded rain it was Water, gave the Air back to breath, saved America’s bird, and mended a hole in the Sky. It continued.
From women who insisted that the fist behind closed doors was a crime, and made the law admit it. It continued.
From friends of Dorothy, whispering past winged henchmen, all the way Over the Rainbow. It continued.
From bodies the world called broken, who climbed eighty-three marble steps on their hands and knees, and proved it was the house that needed repair. It continued.
From those abandoned to die in silence, whose grief learned to block traffic, until the world could no longer look away. It continued.
It continued. And continued. And continued.
Will it still?
I write this from a state of overwhelm, confusion, and awe. The people above were not spoon-fed hope. They had fear and hatred shoved down their throats. They were not superhuman. They were often afraid. They often felt like giving up. But time and again, when they felt fear, they chose courage. When they felt despair, they chose hope.
And through history, their courage and hope reach us still, reminding us that even when it seems as though Empire has ended our story, the choice to continue is still ours.
It always was.
So, will it still? I don’t know. I can’t know. But what I do know is that We the People have the honor of belonging to a lineage — all the people, all the movements that continued. Because when Empire throws us into the dark, their light reaches us still. And when we carry that light forward, the story continues.
And in that continuing, something shifts.
I have faith the shift is already underway.
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If this moved you, please share it: restack it, send it to someone who needs it. If you haven’t signed yet, add your name at wecontinue.us. And if someone sent you here, subscribe. This is where the story continues.
On July 2, my organization, Imagine Better Stories, produced an overture for this project, voiced by civil rights leader Valarie Kaur, my friend and hero. It was directed by two other friends whose artistry leaves me breathless: Adriel Luis and my longtime collaborator Fey Marin. Take a look at the moving painting they created at wecontinue.us
The next part, Act 2, will be a larger indictment of the Empire we face: an unflinching look at what it has done to us. Act 3 will chart a political, cultural, and spiritual path by which we can turn this moment of Empire’s apparent triumph into its last gasp.
So, in the name of those who came before us and those who will come after us, let us choose courage.
Let us choose hope.
Let us choose to continue.
Thank you for this work of stories that ground us in courage and faith.