I don’t usually talk about politics. Honestly, once you put people in power, they stop caring about the people who put them there. That’s just how it feels. And maybe that’s why this piece is harder to write than my usual reflections on love, healing, or self‑discovery.
I’m a woman who often feels like a defenseless child — not because I lack strength, but because my body has limits. If someone wanted to overpower me physically, I know I wouldn’t stand a chance. That reality shapes how I move through the world, how I think about safety, and how I think about the people who are supposed to protect us. Maybe that’s why this topic hits so close to home.
People in power look out for people with equal or greater power. Everyone else — the vulnerable, the overlooked, the ones doing the work nobody else wants to do — gets pushed to the margins. And I don’t know who’s going to read this blog post, because this time I’m not talking about romance or the soft work of loving myself. I’m talking about something people prefer to sweep under the rug because it’s easier than facing the truth.
America sells itself as a place of freedom — a country where you can speak your mind, where the First Amendment is supposed to protect your voice. But today, people are scared to walk the streets speaking their native tongue. They’re scared that the language of their childhood could be used as a weapon against them. That the place they call home might suddenly decide they don’t belong.
My first language has always been Spanish. It will always be Spanish. I was born in the United States, but my roots are Dominican. My parents came here from the Dominican Republic with nothing but determination and the hope of giving their children a better life — more opportunities, more education, more than they ever had back home. They worked the jobs others refused to do, the jobs people look down on, the jobs that keep this country running quietly in the background.
And yet, we live in a country led by a president who has shown little care for the very people who hold this nation together. A president who says that if you weren’t born here, you should go back. A president whose words make immigrants feel disposable, even though this country would collapse without them.
What hurts the most is watching people who look like my parents — people who share the same struggles, the same sacrifices — support someone who now turns around and targets them. They believed the promises, the speeches, the performance. And now they’re watching policies that threaten their neighbors, their families, their own sense of safety.
This isn’t about left or right. This is about humanity. About the people who built this country with their hands, their backs, their accents, their dreams. About the people who deserve to feel safe speaking the language their mother sang to them in. About the people who deserve to exist without fear.
I’m writing this because silence is a luxury I don’t have anymore. Vulnerability is not weakness. And telling the truth — even when it’s uncomfortable — is its own kind of power.
BY: Ms. Butterfly Genesis
The Memoir Of Ms. Butterfly 