If that’s your choice, we can help you get out. There are exits. Real ones.
But whichever path you take—choose.

Because the boiling point is here.
And silence is no longer safe.

This is your reckoning.
This is your resistance.
Wake up. Fight. Or get out."

-Reimagined Maarva Speech, Andor

They’ve targeted teachers, immigrants, workers, women, trans kids, journalists, and truth itself.

This isn’t politics. This is survival.

Or you can leave.
Live somewhere freer.
Raise your kids without fear.
Rebuild a life where you’re seen, not silenced.

Not because I thought I’d win.
But because it was right.
Because nothing worth keeping in this country ever came without struggle.

So now it’s up to you.

You can stay and fight. But make no mistake: the time for quiet dissent is ending.
They’ve outlawed libraries and criminalized compassion.

But if I had one more day—one more hour—I’d rise earlier.
I’d speak louder.
I’d stop asking for permission to care.

I wouldn’t wait for someone else to fix it.
I wouldn’t believe another speech or another hashtag.

I’d fight.
I’d march.
I’d strike.
I’d boycott.
I’d build.

In the politician who laughs at cruelty.
In the news anchor who shrugs at corruption.

It grows when we say, “It can’t happen here.”

But it already is.

Maybe it’s easy for the dead to say, “Fight.” Maybe it’s easy for me, now, to say, “Do something.”

But the rust is here. It’s in our bridges and our bank accounts, our schools and our Senate. And it’s not visiting anymore. It wants to stay.

The disease is authoritarianism. And it thrives in silence.

It lives in the knock at the door.
In the cameras on the corners.

There is a wound at the heart of this nation. And it is festering. We thought we were immune because we had Wi-Fi and streaming shows. Because we had pumpkin spice in the fall. Because we were the United States of America.

They shut down immigration pathways and filled detention centers with children. They passed laws to erase Black history, to silence queer voices, to ban books. They turned teachers into targets and scientists into enemies.

And still we slept.

But while we worked, they stripped away the rights we thought were untouchable. Roe. Voting access. Collective bargaining. The free press. Peaceful protest.

While we argued online, they armed the police and filled for-profit prisons.

We watched our neighbors evicted while banks hit record profits. We worked longer hours, for less. We carried debt like chains.

And when we cried out, they told us to work harder. To be patient. To be grateful.

And we believed them—because we wanted to.

We answered the phones.

And they let us be. So long as we kept the engine running, they let us pretend things were fine.

But they weren’t.

The economy we built was handed over to billionaires. Farms failed while stock prices soared.

We had our communities, our routines—morning commutes, Friday night lights, weekend barbecues—and we thought if we just kept our heads down, we’d be left alone. So we paid our taxes. We kept the shelves stocked. We kept the trucks running. We delivered the packages. We wrote the code.

And now that I’m gone, I want to lift you. Not because I want to be remembered, but because I want this country to survive. I want the American dream—not the myth, but the hope—to live on.

But I fear for you. I fear for all of us. We’ve been asleep.

I was lifted—by truth-tellers, by protestors with homemade signs, by teachers who bought school supplies with their own paychecks, by veterans who came home and said, “We can do better.” They showed me what courage really looks like.

I grew up believing in the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, the idea that no one was above the law. I believed in liberty and justice—for all. And I always looked for that spark. Something that would lift me. Remind me that America still meant something. That our story wasn’t finished.

I remember small towns on the Fourth of July, the hum of cicadas in summer, the sound of fireworks echoing through the sky. I remember backyard cookouts and marching bands, Little League games and church bake sales. I remember when we believed we were the good guys.

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The Galactic Emperor disagrees. We need a few good rebels...