You’re riding high on the fumes of your supposed success, so you think you’ve won the fight.
I’m still still here—we’re still here. The “others” you so very much detest and scapegoat for problems which have nothing to do with us. Change is hard and uncomfortable, so you don’t like it. You think it would just be easier—better—to keep things as they were. Except, ironically, you don’t seem to realize or care that you were on the periphery then, too. You’ve just found another “other” to turn your frustrations to.
You think that because my skin is black/brown/olive/caramel/tan/not-white that you can intimidate me. You can’t.
You think that because I go to synagogue/mosque/temple/non-church to pray that you will make me doubt myself. You won’t.
You think that because I’m an immigrant I don’t belong here. I do. And anyway, that’s pretty self-righteous talk for someone who lives in a country of immigrants and their descendants.
You think that because I am gay/lesbian/bi/female/trans/feminist/queer that I should just shut my mouth. I won’t.
You think because many of us have different opinions and political ideologies that we can’t and won’t work together against you. We can and we will. We intend to.
And most of all, you think that if I am any of the things above, I won’t be supported by others in my fight to push forward. I am, and we have all made the decision that you won’t win in the end. Singular victories are hollow if they’re not followed by lasting legacy, and they ultimately brittle and turn to dust.
Look at Ozymandias:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
You are him, proclaiming victory when time is coming to swallow you up. The empire you seek to build will soon be in dust, so don’t get too comfortable on that pedestal you’ve built for yourself.
All this time you’ve thought we could be scared away, content to meagerly limp out, tail between our legs.
You’re wrong. We’re not going anywhere.