By Kyle “Guante” Tran Myhre, a poet and activist cultivating a deeper engagement with social justice issues, one based in both empathy and agency. Re-posted from his website here

I don’t have time/energy right now to share very much commentary; hopefully people are aware of the news here in Minnesota. Our No Kings rally went forward, and even with authorities telling people not to gather, thousands of people showed up. I shared a poem.

Actually wrote and memorized it last week, but because it ended up being about grief, how we carry it, and what we might do with it, it felt appropriate to share today too. Full text below, for the folks who have been asking for it.

ALSO: please check out the latest post in my FREE email newsletter: What’s next? Things to do after a big march

———————-

The ancestor on my shoulder doesn’t tell me to put the brick down, or that the weight isn’t worth it. I’m sure many of you are familiar with that… heaviness, whether guilt, or grief, or just the daily shipwreck of the news, all this information we already know:

How things are bad. How they’ve always been bad for some of us, and how shining a light on the bad thing doesn’t change it… but can be a first step. How a big march like this can be a first step, but is never a destination. How going “back to normal” is going backwards. And how desperately the cowards in power want you going backwards, want you to put that brick down, want you to focus on your job, make money—focus on your family.

But I don’t have a family without immigrants and refugees. The word family means nothing to me when it doesn’t include trans people. The word community means nothing when it doesn’t include people with disabilities. Words like justice, peace—they are empty when they don’t include Palestinians. There are no billionaires on my block, no kings welcome in my grandmother’s kitchen. Her voice, a beacon: don’t you dare put that brick down. Not yet.

There are days so heavy they pull the light in: guiding star, silver lining, dawn after darkness. All that light beyond our reach; all this heavy held close: these bricks we carry, engraved with the names of all who carried us, made from the mud of home. Heavy: like telling the truth in a nation ruled by liars. Heavy: like refusing to leave anyone behind even when your enemies demand it. Even when your allies demand it. Heavy: like grief: the ghosts we all carry. The ancestor on my shoulder tells me: 

When you feel yourself flickering, remember: your job is not to be the light. Not to shine with perfect clarity or illuminate, on your own, every evil in this world. Your job is not to be the light—it is to help build the lighthouse. And for that, we need to get our hands dirty. We need to join organizations. We need more than brilliance; we need bricks. 

No king carries this weight. We do. No king knows the names of our neighbors. We do. No king protects the water, shares food with the hungry, shows up, arm in arm with a hundred other people when ICE tries to tear apart a family. We do. And we will.

We carry the radiant future: a reckoning, a promise, a song. This weight, this love, was never a burden. It is what makes us strong.

~~~

If you’re new to my work, find more about me here, and more of my poems and videos all over this site. I’m also on IG and Bluesky. If you want to bring me to your organization, or school, or theater, or church, or conference, or whatever to perform and/or facilitate a workshop (all of which is what I do for a living), book me here.