"Reflections" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
“I have a dream.” ~Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
July carries fireworks in her pockets and banners in her hands. She arrives not quietly, but with brass bands and bold declarations, her calendar marked with days of remembrance, resistance, and revolution.
Canada Day. Independence Day. Bastille Day. Friendship Day. Nelson Mandela Day. International Justice Day. A month steeped in celebration—but also in reckoning.
Once, I celebrated July 4th with unshaken pride. I believed in the story we told ourselves—that we were striving toward “a more perfect union.” I believed we were learning, faltering, growing. That we were, however imperfectly, trying to expand liberty, protect dignity, and uphold justice for all.
But this year, I hesitate.
Because I wonder: How free are we, really?
Free to be shot in a grocery store, a school, or a church.
Free to die without healthcare.
Free to live paycheck to paycheck while billionaires rocket into space.
Free to be abandoned by systems meant to protect us.
Free to be exploited, silenced, erased.
That is not the freedom our forebears envisioned.
That is not the dream.
And yet… I am not without hope.
I was a history major. I know America has sins to atone for—slavery, genocide, war, discrimination, systemic injustice. I know the record is bloody and flawed. But I also know history moves in tides. And sometimes, in the darkest waters, the current begins to shift. Quietly at first. Subtly. Then with force.
France’s Bastille Day reminds us that revolutions begin with whispers. That the people, when awakened, can shake empires. Mandela Day reminds us that justice can triumph even after years of injustice. That empathy can become power. That peace can be forged by those who never stopped believing in its possibility.
And I do feel it—beneath the weight of disillusionment, beneath the grim headlines and orchestrated chaos—I feel the low, steady rumble of something greater. A groundswell of hearts unwilling to give up. A rising of those who are awake, who see clearly, who care deeply, who believe fervently.
I believe in the dreamers. I believe in the kind. I believe in those who fight not with fists, but with love and action and truth.
I believe the future belongs not to the tyrants, but to the empathetic.
Not to the oligarchs, but to the people.
Not to the loudest liars, but to the brave voices who keep whispering: we can be better than this.
So this July, I observe. I reflect. I question.
But I also dare to dream again.
Not just of parades and flags, but of liberation in its truest form—justice that is real, dignity that is shared, and freedom that is not a façade but a foundation.
I dream of a country that lives up to its ideals.
A place where truth is not feared.
Where kindness is not weakness.
Where being “woke” is a badge of honor, not a slur.
And so, like Dr. King, I say it out loud:
I have a dream.
Still.
~Wylddane
July carries fireworks in her pockets and banners in her hands. She arrives not quietly, but with brass bands and bold declarations, her calendar marked with days of remembrance, resistance, and revolution.
Canada Day. Independence Day. Bastille Day. Friendship Day. Nelson Mandela Day. International Justice Day. A month steeped in celebration—but also in reckoning.
Once, I celebrated July 4th with unshaken pride. I believed in the story we told ourselves—that we were striving toward “a more perfect union.” I believed we were learning, faltering, growing. That we were, however imperfectly, trying to expand liberty, protect dignity, and uphold justice for all.
But this year, I hesitate.
Because I wonder: How free are we, really?
Free to be shot in a grocery store, a school, or a church.
Free to die without healthcare.
Free to live paycheck to paycheck while billionaires rocket into space.
Free to be abandoned by systems meant to protect us.
Free to be exploited, silenced, erased.
That is not the freedom our forebears envisioned.
That is not the dream.
And yet… I am not without hope.
I was a history major. I know America has sins to atone for—slavery, genocide, war, discrimination, systemic injustice. I know the record is bloody and flawed. But I also know history moves in tides. And sometimes, in the darkest waters, the current begins to shift. Quietly at first. Subtly. Then with force.
France’s Bastille Day reminds us that revolutions begin with whispers. That the people, when awakened, can shake empires. Mandela Day reminds us that justice can triumph even after years of injustice. That empathy can become power. That peace can be forged by those who never stopped believing in its possibility.
And I do feel it—beneath the weight of disillusionment, beneath the grim headlines and orchestrated chaos—I feel the low, steady rumble of something greater. A groundswell of hearts unwilling to give up. A rising of those who are awake, who see clearly, who care deeply, who believe fervently.
I believe in the dreamers. I believe in the kind. I believe in those who fight not with fists, but with love and action and truth.
I believe the future belongs not to the tyrants, but to the empathetic.
Not to the oligarchs, but to the people.
Not to the loudest liars, but to the brave voices who keep whispering: we can be better than this.
So this July, I observe. I reflect. I question.
But I also dare to dream again.
Not just of parades and flags, but of liberation in its truest form—justice that is real, dignity that is shared, and freedom that is not a façade but a foundation.
I dream of a country that lives up to its ideals.
A place where truth is not feared.
Where kindness is not weakness.
Where being “woke” is a badge of honor, not a slur.
And so, like Dr. King, I say it out loud:
I have a dream.
Still.
~Wylddane
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