This is for George Floyd, who liked to hug his friends, and who gave whatever he could—money, clothes—to the less fortunate. This is for Ahmaud Arbery, who never left his family without saying "I love you" and had a smile that could light up the room. This is for Breonna Taylor, who liked to wear a sweatshirt that read "Wake Pray Slay." This is for Philando Castile, who loved serving food to children. This is for Sandra Bland, who played the trombone. This is for Tamir Rice, who liked to swim and draw, and who had the biggest crush on a girl at school. This is for Eric Garner, whom his friends called "Big E" and "Teddy Bear," and who often talked people down from fights. This is for Michael Brown, who was so good at rapping he was asked to write a song for a friend, and who was getting ready to start college in two days. This is for countless others like them.
Not just numbers. Not just victims whose enraging, unjust deaths are their only story. People. Lives that shone like diamonds.
This is for the more than 100,000 lost to the virus in America—for Loretta Dionisio, who survived cancer; for George Winfield, who could make anything grow; for Romi Cohn, who saved Jewish families from the Nazis; for Deyrold Arteaga, who made friends everywhere he went; for Peggy Rakestraw, who loved mystery novels; for Antonio Nieves, who kept himself busy with home projects; for Thomas Adamavich, who was proud to be Lithuanian; for Kimarlee Nguyen, who inspired her high school students; for Clara Bennett, who sang her grandchildren a song on the first schoolday of every year; for Jonathan Adewumi, who built a community of Nigerians in New York; for Myles Coker, who was freed from life in prison; for Luther Coleman, who seemed to know everything; for Bill Mantell, who was an optimist; for Vincie DeRose, who had a twinkle in her eye; for Ruthie Turner, who had a sympathetic ear.
People with their flaws and charms; their principles and politics and prejudices; their proudest achievements and most shameful failures; their moments of kindness and cruelty, heroism and selfishness. Half of them probably couldn't have stood the other half if they'd been stuck in the same room. People. Lives that shone like diamonds.
This is for my wife, who's happiest when she's learning something new, and for my daughter, who dances as naturally as breathing. And this is for all of you reading this. For M who just baked a mouthwatering batch of bagels, and J who holds biweekly yoga classes on Zoom. For A who loves "Despacito," and L who enjoys doing crosswords on the computer. For B and L who are the best brunch companions. For K who always finds the most gorgeous scarves. For MA who fiercely loves movies despite everything. For D who geeks out on illustration and animation, and S who tells the most amazing life stories. For J who loves owls, and M who makes cooler playlists than mine. For R who widened my appreciation for country music, and J who shared family stories while helping me move boxes of books. For J and S who must have seen every Anaïs Mitchell concert. For C who bakes the best huckleberry pies. For other readers of this website, whom I may never see or know.
All of us alive in this time of terrifying uncertainty, digging deep for courage and compassion and humor. Enduring rage or desolate tears, cherishing moments of joy. Striving, struggling, just being. Each of us unique in all the universe, and precious for that reason.
Lives like diamonds, shining bright.
Hold on to yourselves and to each other. I don't know if this day will break us. But if it does, there's always tomorrow to begin putting the pieces back together.
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Listen to the Spotify playlist here.
Watch the YouTube playlist here.