What Brooklyn Taught Me About Healing America

Right now in San Miguel de Allende, death is everywhere. And it's beautiful.

Walking through the jardin, I see altars rising up like love letters to those who've passed. Marigold petals carpet the cobblestone streets, their scent guiding spirits home. Sugar skulls grin from every corner, photos of loved ones surrounded by their favorite things - a pack of cigarettes here, a bottle of tequila there, plates of tamales steaming next to old albums.

This is Día de Muertos, where death isn't an ending but a doorway. Where loss isn't something to hide from, but to celebrate. It's nothing like the Halloween-style commercialization you might have seen. This is deeper. More real. More human.

Two days ago, I placed my cousin Kenya's photo on my own ofrenda, right under our TV where we'll watch Karate Kid tonight - the movie we went to see twice in one week back in the summer of '87. My hands shook as I arranged his things, he was too young to be here, only 48, but there was something powerful in the act. Something healing.

See, in America, we've created this hard line between life and death. Between having and losing. We lower our voices around loss, hide our tears, try to "move on" as quickly as possible. But here in Mexico, during these sacred days, I'm witnessing something different.

People aren't just remembering their dead - they're living with them. Dancing with them. Sharing meals with them. The line between now and then, between here and gone, gets deliciously blurry. It's not about denying the pain of loss. It's about understanding that love doesn't end just because someone's story has turned a page.

Let me tell you what this teaches us about division: Every time we slice life into neat little boxes - alive or dead, winner or loser, right or wrong - we rob ourselves of wholeness. We create wars inside ourselves that never needed to happen.

I learned this lesson twice. First, when my grandmother passed and I spent years focused only on her death, creating a void that swallowed even my memories of her life. And now again, as I place Kenya's photo among the marigolds, I'm choosing to remember differently.

Because that summer of '87 wasn't about who we'd become or what we'd lose. It was about a moment in Brooklyn when invisible lines started to blur...

When Lines Begin to Blur: A Brooklyn Story

You want to talk about division? Let me take you back to Brooklyn, 1987. Crown Heights to Park Slope - just a few neighborhoods apart, but crossing between them was like stepping through a portal into another world.

In Crown Heights, I was already old. At ten, I carried the weight of responsibilities that would make grown folks stumble. That's just how it was for the oldest child of a single mom. We didn't get to be kids because survival didn't leave room for childhood.

But that summer, I got to stay with my grandma at Aunt Kim's place in Park Slope. And my cousin Jasmine, a toddler, and Kenya - all of eleven years old who decided I was his to protect.

Here's what changed when I crossed those invisible lines: The streets got wider. Or maybe they just felt that way because people walked slower, smiled more. Trees stretched their arms out over brownstones where people sat on stoops, actually talking to each other. Nobody was rushing to get inside before dark.

"This is my baby cousin," Kenya would announce to everyone we met, chest puffed out like a proud peacock. Never mind that he was literally just one year older than me. I'd roll my eyes so hard they might've gotten stuck, but something inside me was softening, melting like ice cream on a hot Brooklyn sidewalk.

Truth time: I fought against it on the outside. Pretended it drove me crazy when he'd insist on walking me everywhere, showing me off to his friends, making sure I was included. But inside? Inside I was hungry for it. Starving for the chance to just be somebody's little cousin. To be protected instead of protector.

It was during that same summer when the accident happened. I was skating, calling out to Kenya for something - probably something silly and urgent in the way only kids can make things urgent. I didn't see the car backing out of the parking spot. Kenya didn't see me either, not until it was too late. One moment I'm zooming past, the next I'm flailing my arms like some awkward bird trying to escape what couldn't be escaped. I was hit, I fell and broke my arm.

Sitting here in Mexico, arranging Kenya's photo on my ofrenda. He never stopped telling that story. For forty years, any time we were in a group, he'd launch into his performance about how his "goofy cousin Azizi" broke her arm trying to fly away that summer. I used to wonder why he told it so much. Now I think maybe it haunted him - that one moment when his "baby cousin" got hurt on his watch. Or maybe it was his way of keeping that summer alive, of maintaining his role as my protector, even through storytelling.

Even with grey hair sprouting, he never let go of being my big cousin. And just like back then, I pretended it annoyed me. Acted like I was too grown for his big-cousin act. But here's what I never told him: in a life where I had to be strong so early, he gave me permission to just be. To be young. To be protected. To be small.

Here's what I'm learning about division: Sometimes the lines we draw - between neighborhoods, between roles, between who we think we should be and who we long to be - those lines are like prison bars we build ourselves. We get so comfortable in our assigned roles that we fight against the very thing our hearts are crying out for.

That's the thing about the lines we draw and the walls we build - sometimes they're there to protect us from exactly what we need most. We get so used to being one thing, playing one role, that when the chance comes to be something else, we fight it, even when our hearts are crying out for exactly what's being offered.

Those invisible lines between Crown Heights and Park Slope? They weren't just about different neighborhoods. They were about different possibilities. Different ways of being. In Crown Heights, I knew who I had to be. But in Park Slope, with Kenya declaring himself my personal superhero (even though he was just a skinny kid with a big heart), I got to discover who else I might become.

It's funny how divisions work, isn't it? How we carry them inside us, even when we're offered the chance to cross them. How we sometimes fight against the very thing that might set us free.

And isn't that exactly what's happening in America right now?

The Divisions We Create

You know what's wild? Right now in San Miguel, I'm watching entire families build these stunning Ofrendas (Día de Muertos altars), while La Catrina figures tower over the streets. But here's something most tourists don't know - those elegant skeleton ladies in fancy European dresses? They were created by José Guadalupe Posada to call out his own people's rejection of their roots.

See, back then, Mexicans were starting to prefer garbanzo beans over corn, thinking European ways were somehow "better" than their own. Posada saw his people dividing themselves, choosing sides against their own culture. So he drew these satirical skeletons, dressed in European high fashion, to show that in death, we're all the same. No division. No sides. Just bones.

Sound familiar?

Right now in America, I'm watching people tear their families apart over political divisions. Neighbors who used to share barbecues are now sharing hate on social media. And for what?

Let me break this down:

Why would anyone devise a system where you have to be either right or wrong? Where you have to choose between one side or another? Where families stop speaking to each other based on who sits in an office miles away from their actual lives?

Here's what they don't want you to see:

• One stadium

• Two teams

• Same owner

• Divided fans fighting each other

• While the owner profits either way

Why Division Serves Power: When people are fighting each other, they're not fighting the system that's actually causing their pain. Think about it - while we're arguing about which candidate is less awful, who's actually benefiting?

• Banks keep getting bailouts while families lose homes

• Healthcare costs keep rising while we debate who deserves care

• Education gets more expensive while we fight about what's being taught

• The wealth gap grows while we blame each other for being poor

It's Basic Math: Divided people are easier to control. Divided people are easier to sell to. Divided people are easier to convince that their neighbors are the enemy instead of the systems keeping them all down.

Remember what I said about those Catrinas? While Mexicans were fighting about beans versus corn, who was really gaining power? While Americans are fighting about red versus blue, who's really getting richer?

Here's the Playbook:

1. Create artificial choices

2. Make each side feel morally superior

3. Keep people focused on hating the other team

4. Profit from the chaos

5. Repeat

Just like those Mexicans rejecting their corn for garbanzo beans, we're being played. We're choosing teams in a game where the real winners aren't even on the field.

I don't vote. Yeah, I said it. And I'm extremely comfortable with doing uncomfortable things like making that decision. I've heard all the old rhetoric trying to convince me to choose one side or the other. But I chose to vote for myself, for my family, for my actual community wherever I am. That's where I give my time and my energy.

The Real Cost of Division:

• Broken families

• Fractured communities

• Neighbors viewing neighbors as enemies

• All while the real problems go unsolved

Every time someone tells me "if you're not voting for one of the two parties, you're throwing your vote away," I have to laugh. Because what's really being thrown away is our power to think for ourselves, to create real change in our own communities, to build bridges instead of walls.

You want to know the biggest lie? That we have to choose between loving our country and criticizing its flaws. Between supporting change and honoring tradition. Between being strong and needing others.

Just like I fought against being Kenya's "baby cousin" while secretly needing exactly what he offered, we're fighting against our own healing, our own unity, our own power.

Finding Wholeness Again

You know what strikes me most about Día de Muertos? It's not just about death. It's about the fullness of life. When I place my grandma's favorite coffee next to Kenya's photo, when I hear children laughing as they arrange sugar skulls, I'm witnessing something powerful - the refusal to be divided even by death itself.

What if we lived like that?

What if instead of choosing sides, we chose wholeness? Instead of fighting our neighbors, we fought against the very idea that we need to fight at all?

I spent years after my grandma died focusing only on her death, crowding the memory of her life. But what was the point of her life if all I could see was her death? Without her birth, without her living, there would be no death to mourn. Without love, there would be no grief.

Here's what I'm learning:

• Every ending holds a beginning

• Every loss carries the gift of what we had

• Every division offers a chance for unity

Think about this: There are countless people whose contributions make your life better right now. People you'll never meet, never love, never mourn. They're part of your story whether you know their names or not. They complete aspects of your life, make things easier, safer, more beautiful.

Your Legacy Starts Now: Just like Kenya left his legacy in my heart from one summer nearly forty years ago, you're creating yours every day. Even when you don't try. Even when you don't notice. The question is: Will your legacy be one of division or unity?

I'm watching young children help arrange ofrendas, asking questions about the relative they never met but whose stories made them laugh. I'm seeing how death doesn't have to be the end of the story. How division doesn't have to be our only choice.

So here's what I propose:

1. Start in your own home. Create win-win scenarios instead of taking sides.

2. Extend that to your neighborhood. Build bridges where others see walls.

3. Question every division you're being sold. Ask who profits from your separation.

4. Remember that like those Catrinas, we all end up as bones. What matters is how we lived.

My cousin Kenya never got to hear me say thank you for being my protector that summer, for giving me the gift of being small when life had forced me to be too big too soon. But his legacy lives in how I choose to remember him - not in the division between life and death, but in the wholeness of love that transcends both.

That's the real magic of these days in Mexico - watching people refuse to be divided even by death itself. Maybe that's the lesson America needs right now. Maybe that's the lesson we all need.

Because in the end, we're not just choosing political sides or cultural identities. We're choosing how to live. How to love. How to remember. How to create a legacy that heals instead of divides.

And isn't that worth fighting for?

Rest in power Kenya