Born in the shadow of war
where memories of living skeletons—
members of my tribe—
walked free through barbed wire fences
and six million ghosts haunted soldiers and civilians alike
we the people our conscience mixed with shame said never again

I grew up with crosses burning on hilltops
where the Klan leader’s son
told me Jews were just
Ngrs turned inside out.
And yet—I still believed
We the People did not side with monsters.

When one little girl,
flanked by the National Guard,
walked up the steps
of an all-white school,
We the People
awoke to injustice.

Laws were passed
to shame the haters into silence—
to let a people once sold at auction
finally begin to be free.

I remember Camelot—
both the play and the promise—
the Peace Corps,
young Americans reaching across oceans
to help build something better:
a more perfect union,
guided by the people,
not clenched in a dictator’s fist.

Then, with a single gunshot
heard round the world,
Camelot ended.

And in my twelve-year-old heart,
I was no longer sure
that good would always win.

But still—I believed.
We had others to lead the battle.
We had Martin.
We had Bobby.
Until 1968.
And then we didn’t.

I won’t recount the atrocities
that claimed so many lives.
But the image of a naked girl running,
the kneeling man, executed—
these play forever
on the screen of memory.

We the People—
marching war-weary, medaled soldiers, mourning mothers,
hard hats and long-haired, tie-dyed youth—
unmasked the hypocrisy,
and ended a war
that should never have begun.

We are stunned and silent at
injustices we’ve yet to name—
but I remember when
We the People had a conscience.