When we had all gathered on the sloping pasture near the barn, LaKeemba climbed up on the tractor so that she could see us all, meet our eyes. There must have been about thirty-five of us then. We’d had some of our friends move on from the farm over the last couple of years, ready to live in the regular American society, but we’d also had a few people join us because they’d needed respite, recovery, or just the quiet, a space to just be their magic selves. Everyone on the farm gathered, and I had the impression that even the goats and chickens were listening.
“There is an expression that rises up from the throats of people who mean well but still value their way, their perspective, their place more highly than that of others. They say they are being a ‘voice for the voiceless.’ Their inte
