We Will Not Go Quietly
Where are President Whitmore and Russell Case when you need them?
It’s Juneteenth. It’s Pride month. And I keep thinking about Independence Day.
That movie’s been stuck in my head a lot. Not the aliens or the explosions, but the feeling of it. The sense that something huge is bearing down, and people in charge keep brushing it off without taking any action. Those of us who do feel it are shouting into the wind.
“You knew then, and you did nothing.”
I live just outside Boystown in Chicago. The sidewalks are bursting with joy this month. Rainbow flags, sidewalk chalk, music. But there’s something quieter underneath. An ache. I see it in the LGBTQ+ small business owners who do so much for this neighborhood and are quietly asking how long they can keep going. I see it in couples holding hands like armor. In trans teens trying to walk tall in a world that keeps insisting they don’t and shouldn’t exist.
I’ve worked in healthcare for over 15 years. It’s impossible to miss how policy shapes people’s lives. Who gets listened to when they’re in pain. Who gets access to care. Who is allowed to fully heal. Your ZIP code can say more about your health outcomes than your medical history. The color of your skin can predict whether you're likely to survive childbirth. These aren’t theories or opinions. They’re facts.
And when I travel, I see places that do this better. Cities where the public systems work. Where people expect access, dignity, care, and they actually get it. Where the basics aren’t framed as a privilege or a political game dictated by the ego of elected officials, but rather the real needs of their people.
I’m tired of how often simply naming harm, saying ‘this isn’t right’, turns into a debate as if empathy needs to be defended. I feel the backslide. And I don’t want to be quiet about it.
Independence Day isn’t just good because Roland Emmerich made a great sci-fi movie (although he did). It’s a good movie because it’s about ordinary people who refuse to give up and who step in when everything’s falling apart. And, yes, sometimes it really does feel like an alien invasion, just a little slower. Less explosive, but just as devastating. Systems are crumbling. Rights are being stripped away. And too many people still believe things are fine or that policies come and go like the Chicago wind.
I want to be more stubborn. More insistent. Louder. More persuasive to those who still believe policy and harm are two separate things.
“They can’t do this. It can’t be allowed.”
Juneteenth reminds us of the long journey it took for freedom to reach every corner of this country. Pride reminds us that joy and resistance are woven together. Both are reminders that silence was never an option.
Right before the final battle, President Whitmore delivers a speech that is steady, clear, and emotionally regulated in a way that makes it a perfect example of real leadership. And honestly, I want to play it on repeat for everyone I know:
“We can't be consumed by our petty differences anymore.
We will be united in our common interests.
We're fighting for our right to live, to exist.
…We will not go quietly into the night!
We will not vanish without a fight!
We're going to live on! We're going to survive!”
It’s a reminder that you don’t sit back and wait to see what happens. You gather your neighbors. You show up for your community. Even if all you’ve ever flown is a crop duster, you might be exactly who’s needed to pilot the fighter jet when it counts.
I will not go quietly. I’m here. I see what’s happening. And I won’t allow it.