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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.
1. Who am I?
“I’m Miss Opal to some, Nurse Freeman to others, and ‘Mama’ to one who left this world too soon. I’m a woman shaped by Sunday sermons, long shifts at the hospital, and the memory of hands I held at their last breath. I’m still here—still caring.”
2. How did I get here?
“I got here through prayer, patience, and persistence. Started nursing when we had to bring our own uniforms and clean our own needles. Worked nights, raised a son, buried a husband. Now I live alone, but never in silence—my home still hums with memory and hymns.”
Date: July 10, 2025
Entry Title: I’ve Been Here Before
I was just a young girl when Emmett Till’s name reached our porch.
I remember my mother putting her hand on the radio like she was praying for it to lie. My father didn’t talk for two days.
I was a young woman when I stood outside a clinic with other Black nurses, demanding fair pay. I’ve marched. I’ve watched fire hoses. I’ve been told to “go back where I came from” on land where my great-grandfather picked cotton.
So believe me when I say—I know the signs.
This week I wrote about the headlines that don’t even bother hiding their intentions now. Voter purges. Book bans. Clinics shuttered.
They’re not even whispering anymore.
And the part that aches deepest? I already survived this once. So many of us did. We gave blood, breath, Sunday dresses, brothers, friends. We stood in lines and in church basements and in the rain. And now I watch white-haired men on television talk about “returning to traditional values,” like I’m not supposed to hear the dog whistle.
I didn’t expect to feel this furious, this late in life. But I do.
I felt most like myself when I sat at my kitchen table and wrote names in my notebook—Fannie, Medgar, Diane, Bayard, Ella. My saints.
I think the story I’m still telling is this: We were never given our rights. We claimed them. And if they think we’re too tired to do it again, they’ve forgotten what our bones remember.
