Come, all of you and gather around the table.
Bring with you the heavy luggage society has unfairly packed for you,
the bags overflowing with barriers you have somehow ingeniously figured out how to navigate.
Or if your bags are a bit less heavy,
or are filled to the brim with privilege passed down like an heirloom,
bring them too.
Do not fret if you feel your cup is empty
or if your china is encrusted with gold,
for today, we’ll treat this table as an equalizer.
Today, honest conversation and selfless action will be the food that nourishes us.
Before we sit, let us pass our stories around like bread.
Take a piece for yourself, but always be conscientious;
ensure there is enough to go around,
for some know,
there is not always enough to go around.
Or maybe there has always been enough.
Maybe in the back,
in the rooms where the food is prepared,
there is a surplus of things tucked away from the grasp and eyes of the peering.
Stockpiles of things cannily sharing a wall with moaning scarcity.
Maybe the meal was designed this way.
Where some are intentionally invited to the helping,
and others intentionally left off the guest list--
No seat pulled out or given up,
no place setting bearing their name.
If you are not invited to the table,
it is possible you are on the menu.
And those without seats,
those of us tired of being consumed,
have this collection of your ugly we have been saving.
Saving for moments just like these.
Boxes filled with old bones and new blood.
Attics packed with epithets and mason jars full of scars.
Cedar chests stacked with broken treaties and the nooses tied around our forefather’s necks.
We keep, under our beds, the sting of your water hoses
and the, “No dogs or Mexicans” signs
that flew proudly like flags.
Buried in lock boxes beneath our fruit trees is the barbed wire of your internment camps;
the bars of the prisons you built, salivating with us in mind.
We have, next to the extra Virgin Mary candles in our closets,
the gods ripped from our grandmothers;
the languages you choked out of our throats.
We have albums thick with snapshots of history our DNA refuses to forget.
We store, in file cabinets, next to broken olive branches, the names family and friends deported,
the names of our family and friends banned.
You wonder why we grimace when we taste apple pie?
Why the sweetness you savor, is too bitter for us to swallow?
You wonder why we kneel when your flag is raised?
Why our balled fists still punch holes in your pretty blue sky?
We know, that what the machine hasn’t already swallowed,
it will most definitely be coming for.
Tractors with growling bellies and flesh between their teeth.
This disease that runs rabid through them.
This unquenchable thirst for things that are not theirs.
Your tables are not new to us.
These tables you made us fashion but refused us to sit at.
Our hands and feet and hearts know them well.
This perk of being the builder.
This perk of baptizing the wood with our sweat.
In your rear-view mirror, you can see us coming.
But we are not coming for your head.
We are aiming for the humanity that lives somewhere in the basement of your heart.
Our very existence is ceremony.
This struggle sewn into our being.
This survival radiating from our resilience.
This joy we make space for despite the sting.
Do not be surprised if we ask why the invitation was late.
If we show you we’ve built a table of our own.
One we fashioned out of necessity when we realized yours wasn’t large enough to hold us.
Do not be surprised if we hand you a wrecking ball before we do our voice.
If we ask you to dismantle the comfortable place you sit at as we watch.
And when you are finished, pass the wrecking ball to us.
We, too, will break down the silos we have built.
Then, when we are both left standing in the rubble of what used to be,
let us weigh our pieces until the scale is balanced.
For it is not enough to merely have a seat at the table;
one must be the designer of it.
So, let us destroy to rebuild anew.
Let us unpack our bags, lend each other our ears, and gift each other our hearts;
for listening and loving are foundations to understanding,
and conflict does not have to be combat.
Conflict can be a supple garden that change grows in.
So, let's grow things together.
Let us sit at this new inclusive table, pass our stories around like bread,
eat,
be fed,
be healthy,
be valued,
and truly be heard.