Black In Action
It was a week that started with anger.
I run a Facebook group for my local community. It’s about 2000 people who all live and work in or close to the same municipality. It started out as a place where local businesses could advertise their promotions and events. Then we expanded to include town-sponsored events. Then a huge storm hit. Our town lost water and power and many people turned to their facebook friends for information. Eventually, businesses that had been supported by so many residents began to step up. A grocery store offered to store food so no one’s would spoil. A hair salon offered free shampoos. There were requests for checks on the elderly. Requests and questions were quickly answered. It was clear that the group was forming into an online community (sometimes more civilized than real life).
Last Monday, my husband read to me about the latest protests. I felt numb. I didn’t feel anything as the words filled the room. The 3 remaining officers still had not been charged. There were riots in the streets. Police officers and citizens making poor choices. I let it all roll over me as we delved into the conversation. I hated the feeling as soon as it climbed up my spine. I was tired. Tired of the fear, the worry. Scared of what was the next entry. Where was this story going? Then my son came in. He bounded in and gave his father a good morning hug. Then he came to the bed leaned across to give me one. I pulled him in playfully, laid him across my lap, and cradled his upper body like I had when he was a baby.
The flood gates opened.
I sobbed for a solid two minutes. My son, dear heart (as my aunt would say), just let me cry and wrapped his arms around me. At that moment I realized I was tired. I’d been fighting the emotions of being the mother of a black boy. I’d been watching the story unfold of a once-prince slain by what should have been his protectors or, at worst, his prosecutors. I’d seen anger rise from the streets as voices rang out yet another name. So many names. Painful cries for justice. Questions of “who’s next.” Standing up to say “not me.” NOT HIM. It all poured out of me.
I hadn’t realized I’d even been holding it in. The anger. The fear. Anger at what I’d become. A voiceless suburbanite, too afraid to be the angry black woman in my neighborhood. Fear of what people would think of me and my family if I did raise my voice. No more.
I went to Facebook to address my neighbors. I shared with them the following message:
This may get long so bare with me.
I wanted to go live. I wanted you to see my pain. But I can’t form words right now. I know we don’t see it here. I know it is not your everyday. But it is mine.
Before COVID and Safe At Home, my son and his friends would walk [these streets]. They’d visit the local restaurants, CVS, the library, and the comic book store. They would hang out on school grounds after hours. Then my son would walk home. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with a friend. My son bristled at his dinner time curfew, my constant check ins and incessant nagging. He didn’t understand why some nights I insisted on picking him up instead of letting him walk. He doesn’t understand why I insist on clothing that fits properly and for baseball caps to be worn with the bill in the front. You may not either.
As a young black boy in a predominantly white neighborhood, I’ve feared for the life of my child for the last 13 years. Yes, I’ve feared for him every second. I fear that instead of a Minecraft-obsessed, wannabe-inventor/engineer/pretend hacker, they’ll see a thug, a thief, one of “them”. A threat. My son is not, nor has he ever been, any of those things. My fear is that one of my neighbors will see him as such. My fear is that one of the people in this community could misjudge him based on the beautiful hue of skin.
In light of recent events, I am doing something I never thought I would. I am using this group to address race relations in this community. If you want to ask me questions, ask. If there is something you don’t understand, let’s figure it out together. If you feel the need to reply to BlackLivesMatter with AllLivesMatter, I implore you to sit and have a conversation with me. I will make myself available to video conference. If you do not understand your privilege as a white person in America, then I ask you how terrified would you be to simply send your 13 year old white son to the store for milk or to let him play with a water gun in his own front yard. Probably not at all. I am terrified to allow my son to wear a baseball cap backwards for fear of death. That is the depth of this divide.
When my son came to hug me good morning today, I held on and I wept. And I can’t seem to stop. So that may be why I’ve broken my silence today.
George Floyd is not the first man murdered. He follows so many others that my anger and sadness cannot be contained. This community has meant so much to me and I’ve seen what we can do to support each other in crisis. This is another. I hope you’ll stand when necessary against bigotry and hatred and racism. The conversation isn’t over. I’m willing to talk and listen.
First came the cries of support. Then then came those who sympathized. Then came a request from our Councilwoman to attend a video conference with other black residents.
After responding to as many people as I could, there were 237 comments when I finally turned them off the next day. Many were positive, aghast at this happening in “their town”, supportive, sad, and even angry. The ones that touched me those that said it started conversations in their homes. One mom said she read it to her husband and two teenagers, making it the topic of conversation over dinner that night. People told me they wept. Some told me they were angry. Some told me they didn’t understand. Some didn’t believe there was racism in our town or white privilege period. One told me to move. I was praised for my calm and my diplomacy in answering both those that those that wanted to understand and those that refused to do so. I attempted to have a conversation. But as my mother would say, you just can’t talk to some people. And as my father-in-law would say, you can’t fix stupid. I awaited response from one “old curmudgeon” republican in the group I have a fondness for (because he tells it like it is and will listen to anyone’s truth) and even he said that it took time to respond because I’d made him think. That was the biggest inch I had gained. Not that this softie (though he claims not to be) was ever in question, but knowing that even he took pause at my words before responding meant a tide at changed.
The next morning, I was texted a poster advertising a protest in our town. Emblazoned with “Black Lives Matter” across the top, it provided a time and location for a peaceful protest starting at our local train station. I was troubled to find that rumor had it I was the organizer. I wish I had been. No organizer was listed on the flyer. No contact, no claim. I was filled with foreboding as there had been riots in nearby towns the night before and flyers like this were the perfect way to lure peaceful protestors out into dangerous situations. What I now see as a mistake on my part, I quickly spread word that I was not the organizer and I would not be attending the protest until the organizer was revealed. This fueled the flame of those already fearful of the “thugs” who tore up small businesses and my own neighbors threatened to be “locked and loaded”, vowing to “protect our town” and “back up our police” with the same violence they were fearful of. Even after it was discovered that the protest was organized by local high school alumnae, the loudest voices could not be dampened. My fear grew and I stayed home until the protest was ending, opting to meet the organizers and few straggling protestors after everything was over.
By the weekend, I’d convinced myself it was time to finally stop being afraid. It was time to step out and march for what I believe in. I watched a white friend from a racist southern state march for my rights while I sat at home fearful of what bigots had to say to me online. She was brave enough to risk her already shaky health to ensure my son’s rights and yet I let a few anonymous screen names plague me. She didn’t know her influence then, but she does now.
I marched the following Sunday.
There’s nothing like walking with a crowd who are marching for the freedom of an entire people. It was a gateway to something larger. It was a shift. It was a proclamation. There was no hate. There was no prejudice. There was no brutality. There was only voice after voice after voice of calling out for what needed to be done. I am beyond grateful for this experience.
