Lost in America—where toys turn into needles and birth names forgotten. No longer “Steven” or “José,” but a junkie, an illegal, a dropout, or a queer. He is poor, Black, and gay; she is a man-hater, and she is worthless. Here, Hispanics are all “Mexicans,” Muslims are “terrorists,” and people of color are “thugs.” Loving one another feels forbidden, and your birth gender or skin color decides how much privilege you are allowed—if any.

A lone tree fights for life through the cracks in concrete. Despite its harsh beginnings and unnatural surroundings, it grows—beautiful and strong. And I? I am spiraling. Once a shiny new structure admired until time wore it down. Used up, discarded, abandoned for what she couldn’t control. Replaced by something brand new, built right in its shadow—destined to face the same fleeting, conditional love. Shopping carts gather in empty parking lots, trash litters our woods, and street poles are layered with posters of the lost—people and pets—reminders of things once cherished.

I see a man sitting under a canopy of trees, all his belongings stuffed in bags. Across the street, men hustle for day labor, earning unfair wages because of their birthplace—or lack of one. They work for the same people who demand a wall. Nearby, a panhandler walks with his cardboard sign, detailing his struggles, hoping for kindness from those passing by. Most look through him, as if he doesn’t exist. But I see him. I know him. He isn’t unsheltered—he is using.

We are lost in America as everything I see is a reminder of how we lost each other, our human family, what we value, what we love, what we invest in, and what we protect. Then I remember that lone tree that struggled for life, to be seen, to grow, and to stand tall. Through adversity, and through the tiny cracks in the concreate, it lives. It lives in America.