Somewhere between the 2016 election and Trump’s inauguration, I came into possession of this tiny bottle of Jose Cuervo Especial. Still reeling from the loss of hope I felt then, and the deep worry I had about the coming years, I stepped onto a bar patio one day and found a navy-suited, red-tie-wearing, orange-skinned piñata on its way to oblivion. With each strike it shed pocket constitutions (mine was only recently destroyed by my dog as Trump’s presidency came to a close—full irony in effect) and mini bottles of tequila as if to say, “This person will never be able to contain our country’s laws and ideals—here’s a drink for your sorrows.”
After that evening, this bottle took up residence in the center console of my truck, kept there by a vow to drink it whenever this malign individual finally left office. It lay in wait through hot Texas summers, long road trips, and Seattle winters. As the liquid’s golden tinge faded, our frustrations grew, and our ugliest American traits returned to the forefront of society.
This afternoon, with the sound of Sharon Jones’ version of “This Land is Your Land” filling my apartment, I drank this bottle down. My eyes watering and throat burning, I tasted all the embarrassments; shame; and unrelenting, low-level existential dread that have inhabited me for the past four years.
I will always remember that taste.
As hope refuels us, don’t forget that taste—whether it’s racism, misogyny, homophobia, or any other bigotry—that floods your tongue. Work as hard as you can to never taste that again. Hold powerful people accountable. Fight for the folks in this country who have only known that taste from the moment they left the safety of the womb. Learn to recognize when that taste filters past your tastebuds and ingrains itself deep within you.
This land is your land. Let’s fill it with the flavor of love and unity and change together.
