They just wanted us to be happy.
That’s what our parents said.
Even the animatronic fish
Big Mouth Billy Bass
wanted us to be happy too.
Now we’re frozen here
with debt so deep
some of us put ourselves to sleep
with opioids
not found on the street.
We create Instagram profiles
solely dedicated to cacti
because our grandparents
have ruined the planet.
Our tiny studios and apodments
filled with pothos and sedums
plus herbs used to make tea
that zoinks us out
into a smooth,
dreamy bliss.
We worry about which
gluten free dish
we’ll bring to the BBQ
honoring our local
#BlackLivesMatter group
so no—
we won’t be putting down
any type of down payment
anytime soon.
We’re too damn busy,
too damn broke
from bailing out
our saints and martyrs
because they kicked down
another damn-ed, belov-ed
supremacist statue.
Just read our enamel pins.
Each with a different message,
cause, or clusterfuck of righteous,
radical love.
We hope you’ll grab a glimpse
as we guzzle down yet another
can of La Croix.
Two times we sang
at the top of our lungs
with tears in our eyes
while driving through the streets
of hometowns, far and wide
that our president was black
and our Lambo was blue.
Jobs jobs jobs
came and went.
There’s a reason that album
was called The Recession.
Now we spend mornings rearranging
our vocabulary so our friends
and lovers
may feel some shade of welcome,
some sense of safety
when they enter our home.
You say identity politics
and safe spaces
are ruining the country.
We’re just happy
to finally have the right
words to match the truths
we’ve known all along.
A generation built on feelings,
emotions, and 24-hour access
to cable television news.
We’re the ultimate iconoclasts
fighting for intersectional,
socio economic justice.
Liberation is just another thing
we try to do.
So this is what you get
when you tell kids not to worry
and just be happy.
Better watch out.
You might get happy too.