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Dino Alonso's avatar

I remember believing that day would draw a line.

Not heal us. Not restore anything we’d already lost. Just draw a line so clear that no one could cross it and still pretend they didn’t know what they were doing. I thought January 6 would force recognition, that the sheer visibility of it would collapse the stories we were telling ourselves about who we were.

I was wrong.

What’s settled in since isn’t just shock or anger, but something colder and harder to shake. The realization that knowledge was never the problem. The footage wasn’t hidden. The facts weren’t unclear. The danger wasn’t abstract. Many people saw exactly what we saw.

And then they chose to live with it.

That’s the part that still stops me. Not the violence itself, as horrifying as it was, but the calm decision by so many that it was acceptable. That whatever rules had been broken, whatever lines had been crossed, were worth it if the outcome bent in their favor.

That isn’t ignorance. That’s consent.

I think a lot of us held onto the belief that there was still a shared floor beneath our disagreements. That there were limits we wouldn’t cross, no matter how divided we became. January 6 revealed how fragile that belief was. What followed revealed how many people were already living without it.

There’s a particular loneliness that comes with that recognition. You keep naming law while others are naming loyalty. You keep pointing to principle while others are counting votes and judges and power. You keep assuming shame will arrive, only to learn it’s been dismissed as unnecessary.

That changes how you hear familiar words.

Patriotism becomes performance. Faith becomes costume. Order becomes something enforced downward, never inward. And suddenly you realize you aren’t arguing from different opinions, but from different moral maps altogether

I wish I could say this realization brings clarity alone. It also brings grief. Because it means we can’t console ourselves with the idea that people were fooled, or misled, or simply unaware. Many weren’t. They understood the stakes well enough.

They just decided those stakes were acceptable.

That’s a harder truth to carry, and it leaves fewer comforting explanations behind.

What remains, for those of us still here, is quieter and more demanding. Not the fantasy that one event will wake everyone up, but the daily choice of who we are when that awakening doesn’t come. Whether we keep naming what happened plainly. Whether we keep refusing to normalize what should never be ordinary. Whether we remain in relationship with reality, even when it costs us ease.

I don’t know where this leads. I only know that pretending we didn’t see what we saw, or that it didn’t matter because it failed(delayed, actually), is another form of surrender.

And caring anyway, without illusion, may be the most honest work left to us now.

Sharon Thomason's avatar

What has happened to our country since the day I watched in horror continues to sadden me deeply.

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