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USA250 Journal Project
Personal Chronicle: July 4, 2025 – July 5, 2026
A gift for reflection. A record of now. A story for what’s next.
✍️ Journal Prompt for the Diarists
“What connection have you made—past or present—that helped you remember you were not alone? Who do you see clearly now, even if you were once taught not to?”
Tell us about the person, the moment, or the bond that reminded you that you mattered—especially when you doubted it most. Maybe it was a friend, a teacher, a stranger on a bus, a family member you once misunderstood, or someone you were told to fear or dismiss.
Then look again.
Who do you see now, with clearer eyes or a softer heart, that you once overlooked, judged, or were conditioned not to trust? How does that person connect to the one who helped you feel less alone?
These answers belong together. They’re two ends of the same bridge.
📷 Annie Sullivan – Portland, Oregon (22)
“What connection have you made that helped you remember you were not alone?”
Mr. Reilly. He comes into the diner every Thursday. Orders coffee, black, and asks how my drawings are going. I never told him I draw. He just knew. One night, he left me a note folded into his tip: “You’re still here. That matters.” I cried in the walk-in freezer. But I didn’t feel invisible anymore.
“Who do you see clearly now, even if you were once taught not to?”
My younger self. The one who thought she had to be small to survive, polite to belong, silent to be safe. I used to be ashamed of her—of me. Now I see her as someone who made art in the dark. She deserved protection, not punishment.
🚌 Marcus Dean – Baltimore, Maryland (46, “The Singing Bus Driver”)
“What connection have you made that helped you remember you were not alone?”
Every morning, there’s this little boy—Jamil—who waits for the #6 with his grandma. He waves like we’re old friends. First time he did it, I was fresh off a rough night, wondering what I was still good for. That wave? That smile? It hit like gospel. I started singing again.
“Who do you see clearly now, even if you were once taught not to?”
My father. I used to see just the belt, the absence, the anger. But now, as a father myself, I see a man who never got that wave from a bus. No kindness at the stop. Maybe he didn’t know how to give what he never got. Doesn’t excuse it, but it changes the shape of the silence.
🪖 Jamal Knight – Detroit, Michigan (29, Army Veteran)
“What connection have you made that helped you remember you were not alone?”
Dre. My roommate at transitional housing. He’s loud, messy, always trying to get me to open mic nights. At first, I hated it. But the night I told him I wanted to write again—and he didn’t laugh? That was the first night I slept all the way through. He believed in a version of me I’d buried.
“Who do you see clearly now, even if you were once taught not to?”
My mother. I used to think she gave up on me. But looking back, I see a woman who prayed over cold meals and unanswered letters. I thought she stopped loving me. Maybe she just didn’t know how to reach a son who couldn’t look her in the eye. I see her clearer now, and I write her every Sunday.
🧳 Luisa Márquez – Phoenix, Arizona (25, Grocery Worker, DACA Recipient)
“What connection have you made that helped you remember you were not alone?”
Maya, my best friend. She stayed on the phone with me for three hours after Mamá’s dialysis last winter. Didn’t try to fix it. Just breathed with me. I wrote a poem about her that night. Called it Quiet Hands.
“Who do you see clearly now, even if you were once taught not to?”
The woman who interviewed me for food stamps. I thought she’d judge me. But she looked me in the eye and said, “You’re doing everything right. You just need help.” That moment cracked something open in me—shame gave way to grace.
🍎 David Roth – Bucks County, Pennsylvania (52, High School History Teacher, Father of Two)
“What connection have you made that helped you remember you were not alone?”
There was a day during the pandemic when I taught U.S. History to a screen full of black boxes. I questioned everything—my usefulness, my voice, my presence. That night, my son Eli sat at the kitchen table and said, “Dad, you teach people how to remember.” That line stopped me. It reminded me that I’m not shouting into a void. I’m passing on tools. My son handed one back to me.
“Who do you see clearly now, even if you were once taught not to?”
My students who stay quiet. I used to think participation was proof of learning. But now, I watch the ones who linger after class, the ones who hand in papers with underlined quotes and quiet fire. I see them. I used to overlook them because I was trained to reward volume. Now I listen for what isn’t said.
🔐 Rosa Nguyen – San Jose, California (34, Cybersecurity Analyst, New Mother)
“What connection have you made that helped you remember you were not alone?”
After Ember was born, I was so tired I didn’t feel like myself anymore. Everything felt like code I couldn’t crack—feeding schedules, hormone swings, my own reflection. One night, Lena held Ember while I cried on the floor. She didn’t tell me to get up. She just whispered, “We’re doing this together. All of it.” That moment reminded me that partnership isn’t about splitting things 50/50—it’s about holding each other up when the math breaks down.
“Who do you see clearly now, even if you were once taught not to?”
My mother, Mai. Growing up, I saw her as stern, unbending, too old-fashioned. But now, watching her hold Ember with the same hands that once stitched clothes in a factory and peeled mangoes for me when I was sick—I see her strength differently. I used to think love had to be soft. Now I know: sometimes, love is steel wrapped in silence.
🗺️ USA250 is a living mosaic of voices from across the nation, chronicling what it means to live, dream, and hope in 2025. Follow along each day as we highlight the truth-tellers, joy-makers, and future-builders of this country..
