I suffer, but I go on.

I’d rather write the truth unbent, than sing the dark one’s hopeless song. America is rough. But I work to make my crooked places straight, and I know that with every breath the test of death is waned. I plow like a bull to plant the seeds of truth within my heart. God’s waters will best germinate my now converted pain into a mighty tree of life that no despot can cut down. That tree will grow strong to resist the winds of negativity and doubt. I will be the mighty me America has said I’m not allowed to be. The long transgender winter of my misery is gone, and I am free. No Trump can stump this tree. I am a new American evergreen pedigree: a woman manned with gifts by grace to proudly join the human race. I sing the song that all the people who’ve been here have sung, the song that was written from the dirt up. Like the slaves who labored most unjust and then were cast back to the dust I sing. Like the poor white farmers who had everything reclaimed I sing. Like the natives who were slaughtered, deceived, and maimed I sing. Like the women who were told that their equality was a different kind of equality I sing. Like the cunning women labeled witches who were burned I sing. Like the men who were excluded from society because of whom they loved I sing.

I know the song. My tree reverberates from all the pain of loss and strife and misery. But with the hum of God’s pure love, through goodness will my stalwart peaceful dove pursue the new America that promised land of truth.

I suffer, but I go on.

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