text: We few -- No. No, we are many. We are strong. We are not pitiable. We stand here today, few in number but strong in will -- That’s better. From the top. We stand here today, few in number but strong in will. We do not desire any unneeded violence. I make my -- Sorry. We make our stand for equality, for our rights. Did I say stand twice? Oh no, I’m being too redundant. Should I be writing this down? I lost my notes so long ago. I shouldn’t dwell. I’m wasting time. The static is waning... The people here have suffered at the hands of greed. We are starving, homeless, cold. This is how it is, this is what we were taught is life. What has damned us? Who decided, before we drew our first breath, that we must work our life away to take our second? This is life. The toilers have suffered this life since necessities were priced. Our mothers cradled our heads, sang us to sleep, and whispered that this was life. As we tried to sleep, our mothers wept from the pain in their bones. Is this your life? Wait, no. Don’t refer to a specific entity. General statement, general audience. We would have borne this life. Our bones were prepared to ache. Alas, we are here. Alas, we ache in new patterns. And it has become unbearable. We few, our numbers dwindled and frail, drained by man-made evils, stand here. Hundreds more, thousands more, sleep. Millions. They cry. They twist and turn and sweat and die. They spit blood on floors built by their own hands, their ancestors’ hands... Is this life? Is this the life that we were born into? Was this inevitable? Would you like to hear this story from the beginning? The sickness came in through the water, they say. Those scientists, in their ivory towers, proclaiming the truth without seeing her face. Too emotional. I must be taken seriously. The sickness was predicted. It was written in newspapers, broadcast on TV. But we didn’t have a spare dollar to buy the news these days, and our TV only gets cable when you hit the side just right. I mean, honestly. In this economy? No comedy. I have to be taken seriously. Appeal to emotion, but be professional. Was it written in newspapers? Or is that just what they tell themselves so they can sleep soundly? Was it whispered at the formal parties, announced over private government gatherings? Nevertheless, the infection drove on, burrowed deep. We learned, eventually. And yet, this is life. Our strength was sapped, our breath was stolen, and yet. We woke, we dressed, and we locked our doors, if we had them, behind us. And we served you with smiles. Don’t use you! You, you, you. If only there was just you. One killer, one perpetrator. One drink to poison... Time is running out. Before we could make our demands, we were given our crumbs and told to fetch. And that was life. Our mothers sang and chided us, preached to us to appreciate what we have. And then she went to work. And then she fell sick. And she went to work. And then she died. And I went to work the next day. Did you think she appreciated what she had? Did she die wearing the same smile she carved for her livelihood? Oh, fuck it. This doesn’t matter. I hope you know what we demand now. Do you understand? I don’t want your mother to ache. I don’t want crumbs. I don’t want what was life before, what is life now. I don’t want what you have. I want you to understand. I want you to look at me. I want the blood cleaned off the floor. I want the water to be clean. I want to wake with a smile that I didn’t carve. I want my mother back. And I want so badly to crush your skull. So completely that your tears run red and you can’t form a thought. But I won’t. That would kill only you. And then your child would take up your staff, and run me through, claiming justice. And worst of all, when I died, my mother would be so, so disappointed. We are not few. We are one. And I am the last. I never went to law school or got gold stars on my grammar quizzes. I’m not sure if you understand this concept, but I am here out of desperation. I am here out of love. And I am here because I am the last one. I won’t tell you my mother’s name, but know that she died crying. In her last moments, was she filled with compassion, empathy for you? No. The only thing she could feel was pain. At least she didn’t die screaming, like my sister. At least she didn’t die in a ditch, like my father, too far from home for me to recover the body. I sat shiva alone. What I want is not possible in your eyes. I understand. This is life. So instead, I will tell you what will happen next. Not a demand, just a truth. I will die. Painfully, slowly, by your hands, or by the throes of your disease. And you will have to make a decision. Will it be your children, next? Will it be the lawyers, the bankers, the mathematicians? Who will be chosen to work? Who will build the floors that they will die on? You will die. But your children’s children’s children will be here as well. They will stand before someone like me and will have to choose who is next. And slowly, slowly, slowly, your numbers will dwindle. Twisting and turning, sweating and crying and dying in the trenches that you put them in. And then it will be you. And then maybe you will understand. We are many. I am you. The work will always need to be done.