What will we say in 2040?

September 29, 2040

As I stand here, waiting in line for my monthly ration at the government store, I can’t help but think about how much life has changed—and how I played a part in letting it happen. A young man next to me, maybe 22, taps me on the shoulder.

“Hey, can you hold my place? I need to run and take care of something.”

I shake my head. “No, I can’t. It’s illegal, and I don’t break the law.”

He huffs, annoyed. “This sucks. Why do we even have to stand here once a month to get food? Why can’t I own a car or a house? Why does the government own everything now? My grandparents used to show me pictures of the house they owned before the Great Change. Now, some government official lives in it. What happened? What did you guys do?”

I pause, the weight of his question sinking in. He doesn’t know. How could he? He’s grown up in a world where personal ownership, freedom, and choice are foreign concepts. I look at him and feel a pang of guilt, a gnawing reminder of my own complicity. I take a deep breath and begin to explain.

“It wasn’t always like this,” I say quietly. “Before the Great Change, people owned homes, cars, businesses… we had choices, freedoms you probably can’t even imagine now. But things started going wrong long before you were born. And I’m ashamed to admit, I helped it happen. Back in 2024, I was a Democrat. I followed the herd, convinced we were doing the right thing. We all thought we were on the right side of history.”

He looks at me, confused, but curious. I continue.

“In 2024, the country was falling apart—politically, socially, culturally. People didn’t trust each other anymore, and they certainly didn’t trust the government. But when the presidential election came, the Democrats rigged it to make sure Kamala Harris won. They thought electing a woman of color was more important than choosing someone based on merit. Identity politics ruled everything. And I… I went along with it. I didn’t question it. I didn’t see the warning signs. And when people started questioning the results—when they said it wasn’t fair—I just dismissed it, thinking it was sour grapes from the other side.”

I stop for a moment, watching his reaction. His expression has softened. He’s listening, and I feel the weight of my own words hanging between us.

“The country erupted after that,” I continue. “The Republicans fought back hard. The protests started, and then the riots. We thought we were standing up for progress, for equality, but in reality, we were tearing the country apart. And when Harris took office, things got worse. The government started taking control of everything in the name of restoring order. At first, it seemed like a way to keep the peace, but then they took more and more. They nationalized businesses, took over housing, and banned things like farming and ranching. Now, everything is owned by the government. And we’re left waiting in lines for food that doesn’t taste like anything.”

He’s silent for a moment, digesting what I’ve said. Before he can respond, a motorcade comes rolling down the street. A man in the crowd shouts, “It’s the Mayor! Everyone wave your flags and clap for His Excellency!” I lower my eyes and give a slow, reluctant clap as the cars pass by. The young man just stares, clearly unamused.

The motorcade passes, and the line starts moving again. Ten more people are allowed inside the store. The young man sighs, frustrated, and walks off, giving up on waiting. I shuffle forward with the others, entering the store. The shelves are sparse as usual, and I scan them, hoping for something fresh. But it’s always the same—imitation meat and synthetic vegetables. I dream of a fresh tomato, but they’ve been outlawed for years. Real farming is a thing of the past. The government controls all food production now, and what’s left tastes like cardboard.

As I gather what I can, I hear shouting from outside. I step to the door and see the young man, arguing with the guards. He must have tried to cut the line after walking away, and now they’re arresting him. He shouts, defiant, as they drag him off, but I see the fear in his eyes. I warned him.

“I told him,” I whisper to myself. “His decisions would have consequences.”

I grab my meager supplies and head back outside. The sun is setting, casting a dull, gray light over the streets. I feel the familiar pit of regret in my stomach. It wasn’t just the politicians or the leaders who let this happen. It was people like me—people who didn’t ask enough questions, who followed the herd, who stayed quiet when we should have spoken up.

“I was part of the problem,” I admit, though the words are barely audible. The boy’s question lingers in my mind: What did you guys do?

I know now that we failed to protect what mattered. We were so caught up in what we thought was progress that we didn’t see the walls closing in around us. And by the time we realized, it was too late. We let fear and division consume us. We handed over our freedoms without even realizing it.

As I walk home, I can’t stop thinking about the world we’ve left to the next generation. A world of long lines, empty shelves, and no choices. The young man, and others like him, will never know what life was like before the Great Change. They’ve grown up in a world of government control, where even the smallest rebellion is met with swift punishment. And I have to live with the fact that I played a role in making it this way.

Maybe one day, his generation will find a way to take it all back. Maybe they’ll figure out how to rebuild what we lost. But for now, I walk the streets of a country I barely recognize, knowing I was complicit in its fall.

And as much as I hope for a better future, I can’t help but wonder: will anyone be brave enough to fight for it this time?