I wasn't supposed to make it this far. But I did.
And now, at the end of every month, survival and gratitude clash on my phone screen. At 12:00:01 a.m., a notification pings—my paycheck lands. Then, a flurry of outgoings. Mortgage. Utilities. Subscriptions I barely remember signing up for.
The money comes and goes in real-time; my dark room lights up like a slot machine in a Vegas casino—spinning, blinking, calculating. A silent algorithm deciding what stays and what disappears. I watch the price of survival go up while thankfulness stays free.
Except—gratitude doesn’t pay the bills.
In moments like these, I hear a voice—raw, defiant, unmistakably real. Marshawn Lynch in that viral interview: “I’m thankful.” Two words cutting through the noise, daring me to believe it.
So I measure wealth in what hasn’t been taken from me. The mornings I wake up still breathing. The way my daughter’s laughter cuts through the static of an increasing winter utility bill.
Forty-six years in, I’ve learned that survival is a balance sheet: debts to repay, blessings you can’t price. People joke that my baby face defies my years—though my BMI, that unyielding historian, insists otherwise.
Still, I’m here. And I’m thankful. Or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
Pusha T once said, “Them prices ain’t real without inflation.” And it’s true. As the train slows and ticket prices skyrocket, my coffee thins while the bill thickens. My paycheck feels smaller every month, stretched and strained by a cost of living that refuses to sit still.
Yet, in this relentless economy, there are rare moments when ambition meets opportunity—without a price tag.
Just last night, at 12:01:01 a.m., Swetha refreshed the browser again. And then, like a sudden break, our daughter’s school acceptance flashed on the screen.
"She got in!" she blurted, despite the time—me still half-asleep but electrified, like I’d just hit a game-seven buzzer-beater.
I exhaled, relief in my voice: “We got in.”
Even our daughter, still rubbing sleep from her eyes, murmured a puzzled, “Huh?”
I grinned. “You did it, Princess.”
By morning, the relief had already started to fade. Even free victories come with fine print—the next bill, the next expense, the next wave of uncertainty.
Still, we’re thankful.
And someday, she will be too—maybe even yelling at her own kids to study, in her own time.
Later that evening, my phone buzzed. A friend in Silver Spring, usually so detached from the politics that now haunt him, confessed in a shaky whisper: “The world is burning.”
He explained how even those in government circles are being treated like extras from a defunct social network—people once important, now cast aside. I couldn’t say if things were any better across the pond, but I found small solace in knowing that at least, for now, our eggs weren’t being rationed.
Yet relief is fragile. That tuition win, as sweet as it was, came with its own fine print—the next bill, the next expense, the next wave of uncertainty.
FOMO. YOLO. FAFO.
Our lives, at times, shrink to four-letter panic buttons.
Four days before my birthday, our daughter turned eleven. Our celebrations overlap, and her leftover cake transforms into my birthday cake—candles melted and re-lit, a fleeting echo of past revelries.
There was a time when birthdays arrived like New Year’s Eve: a bold declaration, a carefully chosen outfit, a promise of new beginnings.
Now, they slip in like a forgotten melody—one you recall only when it unexpectedly drifts through the air.
Still, I’m thankful.
They say dad bods and peppered facial hair are in vogue, yet nobody warns you that metabolism can betray you quietly. I find myself mourning the reckless abandon of youth—the ease of devouring a Steak n’ Shake double steakburger with cheese and a side of honey mustard on consecutive nights without a second thought.
Those carefree nights, unburdened by the weight of time, are memories I cling to—even as I know gratitude alone won’t pay the bills.
I’m thankful.
Two years ago, I lost a day-one friend—not because our opinions diverged, but because his politics cut deeper than differences ever could.
He embraced Trump’s rhetoric, a stance that, in its dismissiveness, declared that Black people who looked like me were expendable. I could’ve tolerated differing views, but when someone you’ve known for twenty years suddenly reveals that your life doesn’t matter, you never quite unhear it.
I remember the conversation as clearly as the beat of a favorite track.
"Regardless of what’s going on with the police, America is still the best place for Black people," he had said, as if those ferried over on boats were lucky to be chosen.
Then, just the other day, my mother reached out.
"People change," she murmured, almost hesitantly.
I shook my head. “Not enough.” I remembered every slight, every moment of silent dismissal.
She sighed. "Forgive him for yourself."
I paused, feeling the weight of every unspoken hurt.
"I did forgive him," I managed, though the words tasted bittersweet.
I’m fine with us never speaking again. I carry that forgiveness like an exhale—a way to let go without ever having to say goodbye aloud.
Still, I’m thankful.
For the memories. For the laughter that lingers in spaces once shared. For the echoes of who we used to be.
And if you’re still reading this, I hope one day we meet.
Not in a boardroom or a chain of missed calls, but in a moment where joy is wordless.
Where the bassline hums, steady and low—reminding us, for now, that we are here. And for that, we are thankful.
Jonah Batambuze is a Ugandan-American interdisciplinary artist, cultural architect, and community builder remixing diaspora and identity into radical narratives of connection. As the founder and leader of two global communities—BlindianProject and South Asians for Black Lives, Batambuze creates spaces where shared histories turn into dialogues and action. His work cracks open the intersections of Black and Brown cultures, taking sonic memory, moving images, culinary traditions, and words and flipping them into tools for liberation
The archive is still being written. The bridge is still being built. Got an idea, a story, or something we missed? Let’s collaborate—hit us up at BlindianProject2020@gmail.com.
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