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“Sometimes, agreeing to the same lie is what makes a family family, Margot.”
Driving with the road illuminated by the stretch of their headlights made her feel as if she was on a rocket ship, blasting into unknown depths, an infinite spray of stars and planets, tiny galaxies in the void.
Yet no one knew how to talk about death. As a culture and country, they had so many tragedies from wars already that they persisted in a kind of silent pragmatism that reflected both gratitude for what they had now and an unquenchable, persistent sadness that manifested itself differently in each person.
Wiping her eyes, Margot could understand most of the Spanish in a casual context, but as with her Korean, she struggled with putting words together on the spot. Her fear of sounding silly or being misunderstood acted as a sieve through which all language had to pass.
Because their life would be part of the lie that this country repeated to live with itself—that fairness would prevail; that the laws protected everyone equally; that this land wasn’t stolen from Native peoples; that this wealth wasn’t built by Black people who were enslaved but by industrious white men, “our” founders; that hardworking immigrants proved this was a meritocracy; that history should only be told from one point of view, that of those who won and still have power. So the city raged. Immolation was always a statement.
A single human being could live an entire continent of pain and worry and longing.
What would happen if she were unafraid of herself?
