Reflections on the 4th

Yesterday was the 250th birthday of The United States, I sat and reflected on some very painful memories. Memories of friends and family who passed serving our nation and memories of my own pains.

Like the constant pain that radiates throughout the entire left side of my body from what I endured. The head pain that never fully leaves, the kind that feels like a memory carved into bone. The sudden panic attacks that strike without warning. The anxiety that tightens my chest. The depression that pulls at my spirit. The nerve damage that burns and stings. The broken teeth. The damaged left eye. The quiet ache of feeling alone even when I am surrounded by people who love me. The permanent discomfort and disconnect that makes every room feel slightly out of reach. I live in high gear because slowing down once got me severely hurt. My mind learned to survive by staying alert. The voices I hear have been labeled schizophrenia, but the doctors still do not know if it is hereditary or if it came from having my skull cracked open.

And beneath all of that pain is another kind of wound. The kind that does not show up on scans. The kind that sits in the heart.

My children will never know my side of the family. My mother will never hold her grandchildren. She will never see the man I became after surviving the broken boy I was. I will never hear her violin again in its happier tones. I will never get to tell her that I love her. I will never get to tell her that I am sorry for blaming myself and her for the pain he caused.

Losing her was not one moment. It was a slow unraveling of everything soft in my childhood. It was chaos. It was confusion. It was watching the person who gave me music fade into silence. It was trying to grow while the ground beneath me kept shifting. It was learning to breathe in a house where the air was heavy. It was carrying guilt that was never mine. It was surviving a storm that never stopped long enough for either of us to rest. It was surviving as a homeless child alone overwhelmed, overstimulated and wondering alone.

I am the broken poet who carries schizophrenia. I am the autistic mind that sees the world sideways and deeper. I am the severe ADHD that runs faster than my body can keep up. I am the dyslexia that taught me to listen to rhythm instead of letters.

That being said my tree grows in its own garden now. It stands quietly, not demanding attention, simply existing in the soil I chose after surviving the soil I was given. Its roots reach into four old families whose stories shaped the world long before I ever breathed. I carry them with a kind of soft gratitude, not because they make me better than anyone, but because they remind me that I did not come from nothing. I came from people who endured, people who believed, people who served, people who prayed, people who built, people who hoped. I came from people who tried. And that matters to me.

I carry the steady faith of Pieter Wouterse Van Der Meulen, born in 1580, a Dutch craftsman whose quiet Protestant devotion shaped early Connecticut. His faith was not loud. It was lived. It was the kind carried in daily work, in community, in scripture read by candlelight. His hands built homes, but his heart built steadiness. I carry that steadiness.

I carry the frontier humility of Jacob Lyane, born in 1727, whose family prayed in cabins where the wind slipped through the boards. Their faith was simple and honest, the kind that grows when the world is wide and uncertain. They lived close to the land, close to one another, close to God in the way only wilderness families can. I carry that closeness.

I carry the courage of Louis Jean Jacques Tacquett Sr, born in 1640, a French Huguenot who fled persecution for his Protestant beliefs. His people were hunted for worshipping differently, yet they chose devotion over silence. They crossed oceans with nothing but faith and hope. When they reached the Appalachian frontier, they built lives from scratch. They helped shape the early Kentucky and Virginia settlements, living among Daniel Boone’s frontier families. Their hymns were sung by firelight. Their prayers were whispered in the woods. Through this line, I am kin to Elvis Presley, whose voice carried the spirit of reinvention across the world. I carry that courage.

I carry the disciplined devotion of Valentine Hagner, born in 1700, whose German American family carried Lutheran and Reformed traditions into the early United States. They served directly under George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, and James Madison, helping preserve military records, manage federal accounts, and build the administrative backbone of a fragile new nation. Their service was quiet, faithful, and essential. They believed that truth mattered, that order mattered, that record keeping mattered, that a nation needed caretakers as much as it needed leaders. I carry that devotion.

These four families matter to me because they make me. Not in a prideful way, but in a human way. They remind me that faith can be gentle, courage can be quiet, and strength can be humble. They remind me that I come from people who endured storms without bitterness. People who built without applause. People who prayed without needing to be seen. People who served because service was the right thing to do. They remind me that I am allowed to be soft. I am allowed to be honest. I am allowed to be human.

I have forgiven my father, but forgiveness is not a doorway back. It is simply the boundary that keeps my soul steady and my past from reaching forward. I honor the blood, not the hands. I honor the ancestors, not the pain. I honor the people who stepped in and showed me what love looks like when it is real. My father hurt me and he hurt my mother, but that truth does not define me. It is a scar, not a sentence. I raise my children with honor, human dignity, and respect. I give them the love I never received. I teach them the compassion that healed me. My garden grows because I tend it with intention.

I carry the fire of my cousin John Brown, whose conviction against slavery still echoes in the American conscience. His courage reminds me that justice is not always comfortable, and truth is not always quiet. I carry melody in my soul like my cousin Elvis Presley did, the resilience of the Tackett line, the discipline of the Hagner line, the steadiness of the Van Der Meulen line, and the humility of the Lyane line. These families do not make me proud. They make me grateful.

I believe in revising the railroad, not the one of steel and steam, but the one built from compassion and human dignity. The one that once carried my Black and Brown kin toward freedom. The one that must now carry all who are hunted or harmed for simply being who they are. For my gay kin. For my trans kin. For our wives, mothers, sisters, daughters. For every soul who has been told they are less. For every person pushed into the shadows by fear or cruelty. We do not need to fight with fists. We need to lift our mirrors. We need to let the world see itself clearly. We need to change the lens through which we look at one another. We need to choose a vision that is honest, humble, and human.

Our country is wounded, but wounds can heal when tended with care. Our world is fractured, but fractures can be mended when hands reach across them. Humanity is tired, but tired people can still rise when they rise together. Unity is not a slogan. It is a practice. Love is not a weakness. It is a discipline. Humility is not a surrender. It is a light that guides us back to one another.

How i look at it now... 

My tree grows in its own garden now. Four bloodlines. One future. I honor the roots. I honor the blood. I honor the people who made me the man I am today. Not the man who hurt me. My peace is my boundary. My future is my own. I am the broken schizophrenic autistic ADHD dyslexic poet who carries four ancient families inside one beating heart. I am a child of two worlds, the steadiness and fire of my father's line and the humility and music from my mother. But my heart belongs to the one human family. And I need you. Lift your mirrors. Lift your voices. Lift your courage. Lift your love.

Together we will rise, stronger, safer, and finally be able to give our loved ones the peace we were promised, but has yet to be delivered.

💚JoshM

Personal reflection and my poem for today:

A little Robin landed near the edge of my day,

not with a song,

not with a flutter,

just a small bright presence

that made the air feel a shade more gentle.

I did not chase it,

I only noticed it,

how its colors warmed the moment

and how its quiet made me smile

in a way I did not expect.

Some visitors are like that.

They perch for a heartbeat,

and the world feels kinder

for reasons (I)you can never say aloud. ❤️

Thank you

💚JoshM