If you want to get an accurate (re: not whitewashed, not sanitized, not warped to make rich white men look good) picture of United States’ history, chances are you’ll need to seek it out for yourself. Most history textbooks used in public schools are written with an eye towards nationalism and a subconscious, if not outright, favoring of white supremacy.

Instead of spending July 4th listening to Hamilton again, take some time to dig into the real history of the United States. Check your library for books like A True History of the United States, Overthrow: America's Century of Regime Change from Hawaii to Iraq, Ruin Their Crops on the Ground: The Politics of Food in the United States, from the Trail of Tears to School Lunch, and A Resistance History of the United States — among other great reads.

If you’re looking for something shorter, try checking out the the Zinn Education Project’s “If We Knew Our History” series, which is full of articles from scholars, journalists, historians, and other writers unpacking the dominant narrative about U.S. history.

So here’s a (not so) fun fact: the United States has a higher incarceration rate than any other independent democracy, and at times has had the highest incarceration rate in the world. At any given moment, there are about 2 million individuals incarcerated in the U.S.

I could do a deep dive into the prison industrial complex in the United States but that would take about seventeen thousand newsletters, which we don’t have time for. (Though you definitely should take some time to learn about it.) But among the many, many horrific aspects of incarceration in the U.S. is the isolation faced by people behind bars. Receiving letters is often one of the only ways incarcerated people can connect with others. D’Andre Morris, an incarcerated writer in Michigan, wrote in a piece for The Prison Journalism Project:

Most prison pen pal programs have some sort of application and vetting process, but that doesn’t mean you can’t sign up right away! Organizations like The Prisoner Correspondence Project, Wire of Hope, Letters for Liberation, and Black and Pink are all great starting points.

Humans have been creating for as long as there have been humans. There’s an unbreakable line running from the very first cave painting ever created to the toddler who most recently picked up their very first crayon. Creation is part of who we are — it’s how we make sense of the world around us, from the tiniest particles to the vast endlessness of the universe.

And it’s also, critically, how we cope with pain, fear, and grief.

That creative spirit is what made protesters show up to fight fascism with frog suits, respond to a hostile state painting over memorials to lost queer lives by turning parking spots into art spaces, and write so many love letters they crashed a Google form. It’s what turns heart-wrenching anticipatory grief into films that touch countless hearts, reminds us to delight in the natural world around us, and engage in the kind of beautiful “yes, and” collaborative creativity that can only happen when everyone sees the possibility of a new day being better than the one we’re in now.

The act of making something new is, by definition, a refusal to accept things as they are.

Andrea Gibson said, “Whatever you’re feeling, name it love.” Do this — and then turn it into something new.

It’s true that state and federal legislation is what makes the biggest headlines, have the farthest-reaching impact, and are most likely to result in loud and wide-spread calls to action for people to call their reps and make their voices heard. And that’s absolutely important — but in terms of the impact that you, a single person, can have on the lives of others?

Local government is where it’s at. Stopping book bans, fighting back against hostile architecture, determining what the municipal budget looks like, becoming a sanctuary city — all of that happens at the local level. Your town or city council members, school and library boards, judicial officials, and representative to the state legislature are your most accessible government officials; you have more influence over their work than you do at any other level of government. This isn’t to say you should be accosting them in the grocery store (unless they’re trying to get queer books out of schools, in which case, accost to your heart’s delight) but the kinds of laws and regulations that have the most impact on you and your community from day to day? That’s the stuff happening closest to home.

Spend some time familiarizing yourself with your local government — how it works, who your officials are and what they stand for, how to get in touch with the people making the decisions that matter to you, what kinds of things happen at your local city council or town hall meetings. (Your town or city’s .gov website is a good starting place!)

Decide on at least one thing you want to do in the coming month to get more involved. It could be as simple as attending a city council meeting, signing onto a local petition, or showing up for a day of outdoor cleanup of parks or public spaces…or as complex and dedicated as deciding to run for office. Everyone can do something.

As much as we might feel united in our current “screaming into the void” energy, a lot of us are also feeling…really fucking lonely. It’s exhausting to be constantly frightened, worried for ourselves and our loved ones, uncertain about what tomorrow might look like and what we should be doing to keep ourselves and our communities safe.

Chances are, if you’re lonely and afraid, someone you love is lonely and afraid, too. Take some time to start a conversation.

And listen: Vulnerability is almost as terrifying as everything else happening right now. We don’t want others to think we don’t have our shit together, or that we’re not coping. We don’t want to be a burden on the people we love by weighing them down with our fears and anxieties and frustration and grief and anger. We don’t want to add more negativity to the world.

Don’t think about it as adding weight. Think about it as an invitation — for them to lean on you, even as you lean on them.

Sometimes we’re the first person to reach out to someone drowning. Sometimes we’re the final person in a human chain who pulls them from the water. What matters is that we’re there.