It was a quiet Saturday morning, the kind that settles over a house like a soft blanket. The two of us sat on opposite couches, wrapped in our own thoughts, reading from our phones while the birds fussed at the patio feeder. A nippy wind rattled the windows now and then, reminding us that a winter storm was lumbering toward the city. We had been talking about what else we needed to do before it arrived — whether the batteries were fresh, whether the snow shovel was up to the job, whether the forecasted two‑day shutdown would actually materialize.
It was an ordinary morning, the kind that asks little of you.
Then the news alerts began hitting our phones at the same time.
Another shooting in Minnesota at the hands of Government agents. A man shot multiple times. Within minutes, videos began streaming into our living room — shaky footage, frantic voices, the awful clarity of violence replayed from every angle. The reaction was immediate, and it was visceral. How could they go that far? What have we become?
This had nothing to do with immigration and everything to do with exerting power.
All of us are trying to make sense of the news this week — government troops shooting American citizens in our streets. I wasn’t alone as I felt the anger and hatred rising like a tide. I felt the urgent need to do something, and I was wrestling with what that something should be.
Part of me wanted to be swept into the “raise arms, fight, fight, fight” crowd. I felt — still feel — that we need to act before it’s too late. Maybe it’s already too late. But shouldn’t we fight? Shouldn’t we stand up and say, this is not who we are?
The anger didn’t come all at once. It built in layers — disbelief first, then the tightening in my chest, then the restless pacing from room to room. I found myself gripping my phone too tightly, as if the pressure of my hand could somehow force the world back into alignment. My coffee sat untouched on the table, cooling into a bitter reminder that the morning had shifted beneath my feet. I wanted to shout to the rafters, to call down whatever superpower force I could muster and rain fire and brimstone on those in power who authorized, enabled, and carried out these heinous acts in the streets of America.
I devoured every news clip, every analysis, every reaction I could find. I wanted — needed — confirmation that this was finally the moment that had gone too far. The straw that would break the backs of those in Congress who have been enabling this slide from democracy toward fascism. But the more I realized this wasn’t the final straw — that more was coming — the angrier I became. I was shouting at my computer screen, my mirror, and in my dreams:
THIS HAS TO STOP.
THIS IS NOT WHO WE ARE.
And then, in the middle of that rage, something unexpected happened.
I saw a Facebook post about the Norwegian resistance during the German occupation in World War II. A simple story, perhaps too simple: people wearing paperclips on their clothing as a quiet signal — I am with you. I have not surrendered. A small gesture, but a powerful one. A way of saying, without saying, that the human spirit still had a pulse.
People in the comments were saying they were going to start wearing paperclips too.
I reacted instantly. I jumped into the thread and insisted that now was not the time for quiet resolve. We have not been invaded by a foreign power. This is our country, our government. We don’t have to acquiesce. We need to act — NOW.
I could feel the heat in my own words. The righteousness. The desperation. The fear.
AND YET…
And yet…
…
And yet, it looks like this is what we have become. Is this who we want to be?
A friend responded to my rant with a quiet voice — the kind of voice that doesn’t compete with anger but somehow cuts through it. She reminded me that not everyone can march. Not everyone can shout to the rafters. Not everyone is a Nathan Hale or a Martin Luther King. There are people who are just as heartbroken as I am, with the same fear running through their veins, searching for a way to join the protest that must come. For them, a paperclip is a lifeline — a way to say I’m here when they can’t say anything louder.
Her words slowed me. They softened something in me I didn’t know had hardened. I had been so focused on the fire — the righteous, cleansing fire — that I had forgotten the quieter forms of courage. The ones that don’t make headlines. The ones that don’t chant in the streets. The ones that sit at kitchen tables, trembling, and still choose to stand for something.
A paperclip may be small, but wearing one is not a small act. It is a declaration. It is a reminder — to the wearer and to the world — of who we truly are.
Right now, the world sees us as violent, hateful people obsessed with “Making America Great Again” at any cost. But that is not the whole story. We are also peace‑loving, friendly, generous people. Mom-and‑apple‑pie people. People who help strangers. People who go the extra mile. People who still believe in the lessons we learned about the Good Samaritan and Mother Teresa.
I think of the neighbor who once shoveled our walkway before dawn after a storm, just because he knew that at my age, this simple task may have beena little too much. I think of the woman who returned a lost wallet left in a hotel room with every dollar still inside. I think of the teacher who buys supplies out of her own paycheck because she refuses to let her students go without. These are not grand gestures, but they are the quiet architecture of who we are.
The paperclip can remind us of that. It can help guide us back to ourselves. We can return — but we may need markers along the way to help us find the path.
Outside, the storm clouds had thickened while I raged. The birds had scattered from the feeder. The house felt colder, though the thermostat hadn’t moved. But something in me had shifted, not away from anger, but toward a steadier resolve.
Today, I will start wearing my paperclip in memory of what it used to mean to be an American, in hope of what it can mean again.