We’ll take our city back, not through re-election, but resurrection, with God marching at our side. We’ll breathe life back into this place, so far fallen from grace. Then begin restoring broken lives— uprooted like weeds, tossed aside, left surviving where hope had died. But roots can take hold again, and what was cast away can rise. You’d never splash paint on a tribute to Floyd, yet monuments vanished and left us a void. History torn down, then silence instead— a city can’t heal by erasing its dead. You slammed the ones who begged for help, just to keep their streets alive, to keep the doors of business open, give their neighborhoods a chance to thrive. While “fuck the police” became the battle cry, you gave the worried little peace— little comfort to the people begging chaos just to cease. They weren’t asking for perfection, they were asking to feel safe— to work, to ride, to walk back home, without fear becoming commonplace. Instead, you met us with rejection— we the people demand protection. People have died while the city cried, people still mourn with tears in their eyes. And under your watch, this city lost pride— too many were hurting, too many denied. We begged you to listen. We begged you to see. A city in pain was crying, “Remember me.” This Portland we love has been battered and bruised, left wondering how much more it can afford to lose. You marched these streets beneath rainbow pride, while grieving mothers stood and cried. Their children gone, their questions denied— tell me, where was the city’s pride? Pride should mean we protect our own, not just banners brightly flown. If mothers mourn and families break, what kind of pride do slogans make? You claim that we’ve got pride with parties and parades, but it’s time to face the city— take off those rose-tinted shades. You can celebrate beneath the lights, you can tell us everything’s changed, but pride is more than pageantry when people still live afraid. Pretty in pink won’t make us think you’re confident and secure— when the streets tell another story, we need substance, not allure. And having “Angel” in your name doesn’t make your record pure— pretty words and polished halos can’t make broken promises disappear. So take off those rose-tinted shades. Come walk the streets we know. Look into the faces of the people left below. Hear the businesses still pleading. Hear the families asking why. Hear a city that still loves itself but is tired of watching pieces die. We don’t need another slogan. We don’t need another excuse. We need hands rebuilding what was broken, and hearts unwilling to lose. We’ll breathe life back into this place, so far fallen from grace. Not through re-election— through resurrection. Broken roots can grow again. Discarded lives can rise. And Portland can remember what it means to have some pride. But before we call it freedom, there’s one more thing to ask: What happens when inclusion becomes a loyalty test? At the Sports Bra they wore XX-XY, and were told to cover up or say goodbye. You don’t have to love the message, you don’t have to join their side— but remember all the elders who stood their ground with pride. They fought so doors would open, so nobody had to hide, so who you were or what you thought wouldn’t cast you out outside. They took the insults. They took the shame. They stood when standing cost them pain. Not so another generation could turn around and do the same. Rights aren’t rights when they’re convenient. Tolerance isn’t just for friends. Freedom means the person you disagree with gets their dignity in the end. So if we’re talking resurrection, let that resurrection start with the courage to remember what equality was for. Not one tribe above another. Not one voice behind a door. If our elders fought for freedom, then freedom must belong to all. With God marching at our side, we’ll restore what still survives. Because nothing changes if nothing changes— and this city is still alive. PDX has got the blues. But blues don’t have to last forever.
