Black Lives Matter

A week ago today, my daughter and I attended a protest march. I needed a few days to process the experience, and then I was too busy to write about it, but I'm making the time today. I want a record for myself of what it was like. Beyond that, I want to share for others who have not been to a Black Lives Matter event how it was from my perspective. I see too many people characterizing these marches as violent, and referring to protesters as thugs. I am not a thug. I didn't meet anyone I would describe as a thug last Sunday.

Black lives matter. Regardless of how anyone wants to view people or organizations associated with those three words, that phrase should not be controversial. Because it is true that black lives matter. Even when people choose to combat that concept by muddying the issue with phrases such as "All lives matter" and "Blue lives matter, " I will agree. All lives (and "blue" lives) do matter. That does not negate the fact that black lives matter. We should all be able to acknowledge that. (And not follow it with anything beginning with "But...")

I am humbled and dismayed by how much I do not know about the black experience in America and the world. Only in recent years with video recordings making certain actions clear and undeniable am I starting to comprehend how different my America has been from the one other people in my community know. I am angry about the history I was taught in school that excluded important details of slavery, events such as the Tulsa Race Massacre, not to mention anything truly instructive on Native Americans, or how the Chinese were exploited in the development of the West, more than a line or two about Japanese Interment Camps, among other things. My children are being taught better, but still not enough. We're doing our homework together.

I believe most people are decent at heart. We can be easily misguided by our own narrow experience. I think what we are witnessing at this moment is a collective realization of how much unfairness exists all around us that we unconsciously contribute to every day, and that we need to change. The marches are one way to demonstrate that we care.

I also believe the marches would be bigger if it weren't for the pandemic. I know my own reluctance to join the BLM crowds has been tied directly to the health risk involved at this time. My family is looking for other avenues to lend support, such as making signs or donating food.

But risks have to be weighed, and some things are too important to ignore.

When a friend who needs a wheelchair for going long distances asked for a volunteer to push her at a handicapped accessible march last week, I jumped at the chance. Since there would be vulnerable people visible in the march, I figured mask usage and social distancing concerns would be better adhered to than on average. My oldest daughter wanted to come, too.

We drove to the other side of town to pick up my friend, and managed to find a spot for my minivan not too far from the gathering in Veterans Park by the lake. There were two marches scheduled at that end of town: The accessible march, and a BLM/Pride march closer to the festival grounds. A third march led by athletes was meeting downtown, and the plan was at some point for all three to join together.

The event began just beyond the parking area near the kite store. We settled in on the ground facing a pickup truck where sign language interpreters were standing. There were several interpreters at the march, identified with bright vests and yellow pool noodles they could wave above people's heads to be found in a crowd. They, and the deaf marchers in attendance, wore masks with a clear section in front so their lips were visible.

Around 2:00, when enough people were assembled to begin, we were led in nine minutes of meditation. We were asked to either close our eyes or cast them to the ground, and then told to concentrate on our breathing. Then on our emotions. Then on our thoughts. Then back to the breath coming in and out of our bodies. I've participated in many acts of meditation. This was by far the most profound.

I appreciated all of the speakers, and according to my friend, this was the best opportunity she'd had at a recent march to actually hear people clearly. There was a man named Harvey who had been put in his wheelchair by gun violence. He was glad to be able to attend a march on a route designed to accommodate his needs. There was a single mom who choked up as she described the challenges she's faced raising two black sons in Milwaukee, one of whom has disabilities which compounds those challenges. There was Nuno Davis, a deaf woman who had come from Maryland just for this accessible march. She gave her impassioned speech in ASL while standing in the back of the pickup, and someone translated for us through a bullhorn. We all learned how to sign "Black Lives Matter" in ASL. Khalil Coleman and Rafael (Pancho) Mercado energized the crowd and explained hand signals for keeping us organized as a group. We were asked to remember to drink water, and to check on the people around us as we went.

Even as each of these speakers expressed frustrations with trying to function in this country as people of color, they were overwhelmingly positive. They celebrated the diversity of the crowd. They asked people to refrain from cursing. (There was about twenty seconds of "Fuck the police" about five hours in, which didn't catch on, but that was the only such chant I heard all day.) The general atmosphere was of support for one another, and a desire to be heard and make our city better by holding the police accountable.

The march was set up with the people in wheelchairs at the front so they could set the pace. There were about eight or so wheelchairs in a group of a few hundred people, so my friend and I were in a position to lead the march in a manner we weren't expecting. For my part, this was fine, because although I was in a good mask, I was not eager to be pressed in too close to so many people. It suited me fine to be spaced far apart and in front of the large crowd. Plus it was helpful in guiding my friend's chair to have a clear path and not be concerned about bumping into anyone. I did my best to keep my friend positioned in the second or third row when possible, because she really didn't want undue attention.

Marching for a cause is a bit of a conundrum for introverts. We're not particularly inclined to be seen or heard. But that's the whole of our contribution when involved in a protest this way. In my friend's case, there is the added element of the wheelchair, which draws a peculiar kind of attention. I was of mixed mind about how she was being included in this march. On the one hand, there was a practical reason for her to be up front. The march was designed specifically around her sort of needs. But it was hard to get away from the idea of her being used as a prop. I know that made her uncomfortable. At the same time, she was there with a sign which she wanted people to see. (It read: "When George called for his Mama, all moms were summoned.") So why not be seen? If the wheelchair in this instance amplified her message, all the better? And the focus on the disabled caught the needed attention of the press. I don't know. It was awkward, but maybe for the best, and I haven't worked that bit out in my head yet. There is a fine line between tokenism and awareness sometimes. I think my friend handles it with grace. I don't know if I would do it as well.

We walked out of the park and south along Lincoln Memorial Drive. We took over one side of the boulevard, and cars lined up on the opposite side honked in support. The basic chants were mostly call and response: "I can't breathe, can you breathe?--I can't breathe." "Whose city?--Our city. Whose state?--Our state." "Don't arrest me!--Arrest the police." Along with repeated chants of "Black Lives Matter" or the sing-song "Ain't no power like the power of the people 'cause the power of the people don't stop."

We got as far as the intersection by the art museum before we stopped for a while. Apparently marching involves a lot more stopping and standing than I knew. We waited for the Pride march to join up with us, then the march from downtown.

That's when the food appeared. I had my own water, but volunteers all along the route were omnipresent with water bottles offered out of the trunks of cars and in wagons. There were boxes full of snacks, and whole bagged lunches. I took a bag marked PB&J, and shared my sandwich with my daughter. In the bag was also an apple, a granola bar, and fruit gummies. My friend said her son had been marching every day since the protests began (this was day ten) and that he'd been living off the snacks donated by volunteers.

The weather was perfect: Sunny, just cool enough to not be sticky. It was sort of fascinating to get to eat lunch in the sunshine near the entrance to a freeway in a place I normally only drive. Everyone was pleasant and generous.

We gathered in a circle at the intersection where someone set up speakers and a microphone. The interpreters were always in sight. The people in wheelchairs (at this, and every stop) were escorted to the front to make sure they had an unobstructed view. Organizers spoke, and kept the themes positive. To be honest, their words didn't stick with me as well as the presence of a four-year-old girl who got to lead the crowd in repeating "Black lives matter" over and over. It was done with the glee you'd expect of a child who doesn't tire of reruns. It was hard not to think about the world she's growing up in. I can't imagine anyone not wanting the best for her. I thought about how many of my own children's opportunities I tend to take for granted.

Eventually everyone reassembled into a procession again, wheelchairs at the front, followed by people with banners and everyone else. All along the route were people to cheer us on, offering water and handing out extra signs for anybody who wanted one. At that point the group was very large. I saw an estimate later on the news of thousands, but really don't know. Again, I was grateful for the excuse to be essentially out front and able to keep some distance between our trio and others.

We headed past City Hall and over to Red Arrow Park--a small skating rink where Dontre Hamilton was shot and killed by police in 2014. He was a man with mental illness who had been sleeping in the park. People ever since have placed small memorials to him there that are repeatedly swept away. I often play in the performing arts center across the street. There is never a time I see that park that I don't think of Dontre needlessly losing his life there.

There were speeches at the park, followed by another break for food. Some generous donor had provided a car with 60 pizzas, and children followed by women were invited to partake. That was maybe the only other thing in the day that didn't sit with me well, in addition to people in wheelchairs being made to feel a bit like props. There were a few times one of the organizers described men as the protectors of women, and sort of lumped women and children together as a weaker category. I know it was well-intentioned, and no harm was meant by it, but I think for a march that included a sizable LGBTQ+ section of the community, it was not particularly sensitive. I wondered how it would be possible to broach the topic with the speaker somehow, because I'm sure he wouldn't have wanted to alienate anyone present. But if I, as a cis-gendered hetero white woman found the "protectors of women and children" thing uncomfortable, I can only imagine how that sat with any queer or non-binary people in attendance.

But you know what? Compared to the way BLM marches seem to be portrayed on social media and in the news, these are exceedingly small quibbles. People always get points in my mind for their good intentions if they are doing the best with what they know. I only bring them up in order to highlight how overwhelmingly positive and inspiring everything was. If the only thing spoken that made me cringe was someone saying men have a duty to protect women and children, well, then I wish all the problems of the world could be so insignificant.

My daughter and I ate our pizza standing well apart from others so we could remove our masks with less worry. It felt good to sit in the park for a bit and rest our feet. I also had the opportunity to talk with a couple of women with signs listing black people tragically killed by police. We'd been chanting the name "George Floyd" of course, and sometimes "Breonna Taylor" (and then the call and response would turn to "Say their name--Which one?"), and I recognized several of the names on one woman's sign (Trayvon Martin, Sandra Bland, Tamir Rice, Michael Brown....). But I was shocked at how many names I did not know of local victims on the other woman's sign.

We reassembled after the break in the park to march over a bridge and toward the police station. That area was blocked off by dumpsters so we could not walk in front of that building. We stopped again so people could speak, then wound our way back toward the lake where we started. As we passed through the tunnel under the convention center, everyone was struck with the same urge as every little kid in that space to make a lot of noise and hear it echo. It was one of the only moments I took any video because I wanted to remember it. It was impressive. (I am not sharing it here, or any photos that protesters could be identified from, since I do not have their permission.)

During the downtown portion of our march we were joined by a few men carrying rifles. I am not comfortable around guns. However, in the wake of lock down protests where white men felt entitled to openly carry with impunity, I don't think there should be a double standard when it comes to black citizens. Anytime I see a Walmart I think of John Crawford who was killed in one in Ohio for carrying a BB gun that was for sale inside that store. These black men with their rifles were making a statement, and did not make me nervous. If anything, I was nervous for them.

As the sun was setting, we walked back along the road in front of the museum, and back into the park. I drove my friend home, and then on our way back to our side of town, my daughter and I were stuck in traffic in the dark watching the same march continue up by the university. It was amazing to watch the group we'd walked in front of for seven hours from the outside. I hadn't realized just how many cars had joined the procession at the rear. It was noisy and energetic.

The whole thing was a great experience. I am beyond glad I went. And it was a joy to see the kind of light the day brought to my daughter's eyes. She's been stuck at home so long, deprived of her end-of-high-school experience, apart from friends, and feeling helpless about these important issues we are all grappling with lately. She said it felt good to get up and do something, even if it wasn't much. We both agreed we felt better about our city having spent the day with so many people in our community who want things to change. It gave us hope.

So here is a big takeaway from this event for me: The positive is seldom reported. Not a big surprise, but in the context of our current state, it leaves the wrong impression of BLM protests. I talked to one woman at our march who said the one she was in the day before, they walked peacefully in a northern suburb for ten hours, and the only part that made the news was the lawyer who came out to spit on a young black man in the march. That moment was despicable, and deserved press, but I have a feeling if that hadn't happened, those hundreds of people out there to make a statement against racism would have been overlooked entirely. Our march got press because it had a couple of gimmicks: the wheelchairs, and the professional athletes. I wonder if it hadn't been for those things if it would have merited a mention at all.

There were no police in sight anywhere on our march, with the exception of a couple of cars at a distance helping redirect traffic. I don't believe unless there is a specific reason for police to be involved, they should be anywhere near these protests. The few marches in our area where there was trouble, protesters have reported that the police overreacted to situations they misinterpreted, and escalated the conflict. I believe them. I can't speak to the devastation to property in places like Minnesota, but I can say that any time we care more about property than we do about human lives and dignity and justice, we are putting our empathy in the wrong place. I love the store I run. It's an extension of myself, and I think I do good work for our community. If something were to happen to it, I would be understandably upset. But I don't think it is worth more than a human life.

I hope these marches are the beginning of a larger trend of learning and change. I hope at some point when they die down and fade away, that the momentum continues in other quiet but meaningful ways. In the meantime, our family will look for more contributions we can make to the Black Lives Matter message. This weekend both of my daughters joined an event where they participated in a protest using chalk on a sidewalk in a park near our home. We plan this week to make signs for others to carry. Someday soon we hope to be among the people handing out snacks that keep others marching.

Because black lives matter. Obviously.

And then we tried to go to the circus... (Babble)

One of the things I remember best about when we had our first baby was developing the “one thing” strategy of coping.  That first baby can feel overwhelming because it’s such a dramatic change of lifestyle, and previously simple tasks seem insurmountable.  So Ian and I both decided that in a typical day home alone with the baby that it was possible to keep the baby alive and also do one thing.  Sometimes that one thing was to make dinner.  Sometimes that one thing was to clean a closet.  That one thing could be a trip to the grocery store, or even to just to take a shower.  Sometimes the one thing was not possible to get to, but that was okay.  It was just one thing anyway.

The learning curve on parenting is really remarkable, though.  You get past those precarious beginnings and into surer footing, and with time and subsequent children become someone different and stronger.  After dealing with three small children alone during Ian’s deployments there is not much in the day to day life of regular parenting that I don’t feel I can handle and still get in a shower, get to the grocery store, make dinner AND clean a closet.  I flew to New York and back alone with my kids when they were five, three, and five months so I have graduated beyond the “one thing” level long ago, but still, some days I’m impressed with how much we can do.  Like Sunday.

On a typical Sunday we don’t do much.  I work on Saturdays and just want to have lazy time at home with my kids come Sunday.  We eat breakfast late, we cuddle, we lounge around.  Sometimes we’ll get out to something special and that saps all our energy and then we are extra lounge-y when we get back home. 

But this Sunday was ridiculous.  I don’t know why I have to drag all my children out of bed on a school day, but on the weekend they are up and noisy at 6:30 in the morning.  Sunday was no exception, and they were up and squeaky, and Mona wanted to help me make popovers for breakfast.  She’s good at cracking eggs and melting butter in the microwave, and she asks me periodically as we’re cooking how far I would be without her help.  Usually I tell her I would be only at the point of opening the recipe book and she looks very pleased.

Anyway, we made popovers with strawberry butter (that’s just butter whipped together with strawberry jam but it’s really tasty), and then we all went to the Y.  Ian got in a run on a treadmill while I played with the kids in the small pool, and then he played with the kids while I swam laps.  On a typical Sunday a trip like that to the Y would be enough of an event.  But no!

Ian decided we should drive to Madison.

The protests taking place at the capitol have reached historic proportions, and he wanted the kids to see it.  With all the upheaval in the Arab world right now, with so many people risking everything to reshape their governments, he wanted our children to see what a healthy disagreement looks like in a stable democracy.  We know people with strong feelings on both sides of the issue at hand, but most of them side with unions being able to retain their collective bargaining rights. 

Personally, I do too, because at its core it seems rooted in the basic freedoms to assemble and speak.  I don’t have any interest in joining a union, but I think everyone should have that right.  The fact that teachers and other state workers have agreed to all of the pay cuts the governor has asked for and are protesting purely to retain the right to collective bargaining suggests to me that this is less about budget issues and more about destroying unions.  The governor is overreaching and I understand why people are upset.

So we packed a lunch for the car and drove the 90 miles to the state capitol.  Somehow Ian managed to find us a parking spot only two blocks from the statehouse and we marched the kids toward the protest signs and drum circles.  It was very interesting.  The giant crowds of reportedly 100,000 people were on Saturday, and that would have been difficult to navigate with the kids, but there were still long lines of people waiting to get into the capitol building.  Everyone was friendly.  There were people handing out bottles of water to protesters.  One man was dressed as Santa and there were dogs wearing banners so there was a lot to see.  Ian told the kids to take a good look because a real protest of great size in action was a rare event.  We walked at Quinn’s slow pace the entire distance around the capitol building, reading signs and fighting off the cold.

It was fascinating to watch Aden.  Since she’s old enough to understand what is going on we did our best to explain to her specifically what she was seeing.  (Mona’s cute, but she thought we’d left Wisconsin entirely, so we still have some basic information to drill into her before she’s ready for a good civics lesson.)  All the kids kept asking why people were chanting, or carrying signs, or drumming, or making noise.  We kept reminding them that they were trying to draw attention to themselves.  The whole point of a protest is to be noticed, and those were all ways to be peacefully heard and seen. 

Quinn trudged behind and Mona kept running ahead, but Aden stayed by my side, asked me to explain some signs, and smiled when she understood the meaning of some on her own.  She was looking for her teacher or some of her friends, but I told her most of the people from her school came out on buses on Saturday instead.  Most of it made her uneasy.  I could see that, because usually large numbers of police officers at a gathering implies something unsafe. 
But her main concern turned out to be the same as mine.  She felt it wasn’t quite right to observe an event where people were trying to make a difference and not help.  I felt a little awkward just being there to observe as well, but I reminded her that being counted among the numbers was helping.  I pointed out all the satellite trucks from the news stations lined up nearby and explained they would not be there if it were not for the large crowds, of which we were a part at that moment.

When the kids became too cold and tired to find the protest interesting anymore we popped into the nearby children’s museum for a moment.  It was way too crowded to be a comfortable refuge for longer than warming up our feet but we promised we would bring them back there and check it out soon.  Instead we got them back in the car and headed for Ella’s Deli.  We hadn’t been there since the day Ian returned from his most recent deployment in Iraq.  It’s filled with carnival and game themed everything and it’s a real treat for the kids whenever we’re in Madison, so that was an event in itself.

And after all of that we attempted to go to the circus.  We had a couple of free passes to the last night of the circus in town, and not only have my kids never been, I found out Ian’s never been to the circus either.  I felt like we should try.  We gave the kids one more round of snacks and headed to downtown Milwaukee.  Unfortunately the lines were too long and after waiting for about 20 minutes we decided we were never going to get in and I promised the kids I would make it happen next year.  They were so good about it, and frankly had been so good all day that we took them to Leon’s for frozen custard.  Because that’s what you do in Milwaukee when it freezing cold; you wait in line outside for a frozen treat.

We went home, the kids got into their pajamas and brushed their teeth, and then I found some clips of the circus on YouTube that we watched snuggled together on my bed.  On a school night that worked out for the best anyway.

It’s so easy to lose sight of how lucky we are to have the way of life we do.  When you live in a country with real freedom and are fortunate to be among those with the resources to enjoy it, you can start to feel as if this is the natural state of the world.  I’ve talked to people who have expressed discomfort with Ian’s role as a soldier, and I remind them that the only reason they have the luxury to live the way they do is because people like him are willing to defend it.  It does not have to be the case that my daughters are encouraged to get an education.  It does not have to be the case that when we disagree with our leaders we can say so publicly.  It does not have to be the case that I could make my own reproductive choices, live where I want to live, marry whom I want to marry, and run my own business. 

It sounds like a little thing that we went to the Y, or took the kids to Ella’s Deli, or that we waited in line for the circus but went for a treat instead.  But that’s not little.  That’s everything.  That’s more than most people in the world could ever hope for, and for us it was just an unusually busy weekend.  I’m hopeful as I watch the uprisings taking place all at once in countries where people have suffered so much and not known real freedom.  I hope one day those families have so many good choices that they can take expecting basic human rights for granted.  I hope in the not too distant future a protest against the government is just another activity they can take their kids to on a Sunday afternoon.