Before you play this anthem, we want you to know where it came from and why we wrote it. Still Not Gone was born out of grief and fury. After reliving the tragedies of Kent State, Tuskegee, Flint, Katrina, the border cages, and the January 6th insurrection, we knew we couldn’t just mourn; we had to respond. This anthem is our refusal to forget, our answer to every lie sold as law, and every leader who chose power over people. And now, we’re backing this anthem with action. We will soon launch a six-part exposé series: The Hit List: Exposing the Enemies of American Democracy. These aren’t just essays but battle maps for truth and justice. We will show you who funds the rot, who protects it, who profits from it, and how to dismantle it. You’ll get names. You’ll get facts. You’ll get tools.
So subscribe. Get informed. Mobilize.
If you’ve ever said, “I wish I could do something,”—this is it.
This is the counteroffensive. And it starts now.
Hear the backstory—then ask yourself: Have you had enough? Are you ready to stand with us, speak out, and commit to the fight for truth, justice, and democratic survival?
A Recount of History and Why We Wrote Still Not Gone.
Obituary for America
1776 – 2025
I write today with the weight of sorrow heavy on my heart. America—the country I loved, the country I believed in, the country that shaped me—has died.
I was born in 1950 in Detroit, Michigan, the beating heart of American industry. My father was a welder for the local power company. My mother ran our home with grace and care. We had enough. A house we owned, food on the table, vacations, and family picnics with the people my father worked beside every day.
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We weren’t rich, but we were secure. We believed in our future. We trusted the institutions around us.
America, then, was a place where the factory whistle blew at shift’s end, where neighbors knew your name, where a middle-class job meant dignity and a pension. It was a country that rewarded hard work, not exploitation.
Yes, there were sirens. Duck and cover drills. The looming fear of the bomb. But we still believed in something bigger than ourselves.
We believed in our country.
Somewhere along the way, I lost that country.
It didn’t happen overnight. Piece by piece, America changed. The factories that once gave millions a decent life shut their gates. The whistle fell silent. The American Dream that my father built with a welding torch was dismantled, shipped overseas, sold for parts.
I watched as money, once earned by honest labor, was hoarded by the few. As greed was dressed up as capitalism, and those who had the most were told they deserved even more.
I watched as leaders became liars, and liars became leaders.
I watched as neighbors stopped talking, as division turned from an argument at the dinner table into a way of life.
I watched as violence replaced discourse. As books were banned. As facts became optional.
I watched truth itself fall to ruin.
I saw my country elect a man with no morals, no shame, no allegiance to anything but his own power. I saw people who once stood for freedom bow to tyrants and traitors.
I saw America turn its back on its promises.
The country that raised me—**the America that built things, that stood for something, that fought for justice even when it failed to live up to it—**that America is gone.
And what remains?
A place where power is hoarded, where cruelty is policy, where democracy hangs by a thread.
I mourn this loss as I would the passing of a loved one.
Because that’s what America was to me—family.
I grieve not just for myself, but for those who never got to know the country I once knew. For children who will never know what it was like to feel safe, to believe in their future, to trust their leaders.
I know grief has its stages, but I cannot bring myself to acceptance.
Not yet.
Because though this America is gone, I refuse to go quietly.
Perhaps, if enough of us remember what it once was—
Perhaps, if enough of us refuse to let the dream die with it—
Perhaps, if enough of us stand and fight—
We may still have a chance to bring it back.
Not the past, but the promise.
And so I say farewell, America, for now.
But know this—we will not forget you.
And maybe, just maybe, we will find a way to resurrect you.
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