Black Lives Matter

The fact that Black lives matter even needs to be said breaks my heart. With gratitude to Touré for stating things better than I could, I want to rerun my blog post from March 2012 after Trayvon Martin was murdered. My position in this struggle is complicated because I am not Black, yet I am no mere ally. I am the wife of a Black man and the mother of Black sons and a Black daughter. Blood of my blood. Beloved of my heart. I fear for the safety of my immediate family as they go out into the world every day in this racist country. My husband spent a weekend in jail in his youth for “dirty license plates,” or, as commonly called in the Black community, DWB (driving while Black). This man, to whom I have pledged my soul, could have died right then for one mistaken movement, one eye roll, one unfortunate word; and I would never have met him, married him, bore his children, spent 42 years loving him and being held in his love in return. I am more than an ally. I am the wife and mother of Black men. I claim that. I live inside it. Grant me the right to speak the truth of my narrative. Without further preface, here is a revised version of my blog post from eight years ago. A blink of an eye. Has anything changed in that time? Tell me, what can I find to give me hope?

March 25, 2012

One day in 1996, I received a phone call while at work from my friend S., who lived about 45-minutes-drive from town in our rural community. S., who is part Black and part Native, was in a panic because her son, R., who was 20 at the time, had called to tell her he had been arrested for “making an unsafe maneuver on his bicycle.” She begged me to go to the jail to make sure R. wasn’t mistreated or injured before she could get into town. She was terrified he would be beaten. Or worse. When she called, I was about to leave work to pick up my boys (ages 8 and 4) from daycare. I promised her that as soon as I had my boys I would go to the jail.

As I drove over to retrieve my own Black sons, it dawned on me that I would have to explain to them why R., who often babysat them, was in jail. And to explain that, I would have to explain why the police arrested him on a false charge. And to explain that, I would have to break the news to my children that the police were not always your friendly neighborhood helper if you happened to be a Black boy (or a Black man). And if I did that, it meant that their dad and I would have to have the talk with them, the talk that I hadn’t expected to have with them until they were much older. How could we explain to such young boys that they were less safe than their white peers, and why? How could we explain the precautions that Black young men must take to attempt to stay safe in America? They were so young, so trustful.

We later learned that R. had crossed the street on his bike in the middle of a block instead of at the corner. A police car immediately bore down on him. R. was in front of the house where he rented a room from our friend J. and he was terrified when the police pursued him. He panicked. He threw his bike on the front lawn and ran into the house. Within moments, a half a dozen police officers forcibly entered J.’s house, with a police dog and weapons drawn, threw R. on the floor, cuffed him, and accused him of resisting arrest. Meanwhile J. (who was physically restrained in her own home by officers) was screaming at the officers that they had no legal right to enter her house without a warrant. Later, when the dust cleared, the city offered to drop all charges against R. if he agreed not to sue them. R. wanted to put the whole awful experience behind him and he took the deal. S. didn’t want him to have a criminal record and the agreement would ensure that his record remained clean so she didn’t protest either. The police department should not have walked away from that filth unscathed, but I understand why R. and S. made the choices they made. Not everyone is a hero.

I remember this story today because of Trayvon Martin. The most insightful, moving, and useful words that I have read in the wake of the murder of this Black child in Florida were written by Touré for Time Magazine in an article entitled “How to Talk to Black Boys about Trayvon Martin.” It is a healing and honest discourse. You can read Touré’s full list of talking points here in the Time archives. Allow me to share some of Touré’s words because they touched me so deeply as the parent of Black children. He provides excellent advice to Black young men regarding how to respond in potentially life-threatening situations. Here is an excerpt from Touré:

It's unlikely but possible that you could get killed today. Or any day. I'm sorry, but that's the truth. Black maleness is a potentially fatal condition. I tell you that not to scare you but because knowing that could save your life. There are people who will look at you and see a villain or a criminal or something fearsome. It's possible they may act on their prejudice and insecurity. Being black could turn an ordinary situation into a life-or-death moment even if you're doing nothing wrong.

There is nothing wrong with you. You're amazing. I love you. When I look at you, I see a complex human being with awesome potential, but some others will look at you and see a thug--even if their only evidence is your skin. Their racism relates to larger anxieties and problems in America that you didn't create. When someone is racist toward you--either because they've profiled you or spit some slur or whatever--they are saying they have a problem. They are not speaking about you. They're speaking about themselves and their deficiencies.

What if it's the cops who are making you feel threatened? Well, then you need to retreat. I don't mean run away. I mean don't resist. Now is not the time to fight the power. Make sure they can see your hands, follow all instructions, don't say anything, keep your cool. Your goal is to defuse things, no matter how insulted you are. We'll get revenge later. In the moment, play possum. Say sir. They may be behaving unjustly, but their lives aren't in danger. Yours is. If you survive, you will be able to tell your lawyer what happened. If you don't …

Never forget:  As far as we can tell, Trayvon did nothing wrong and still lost his life. You could be a Trayvon. Any of us could.

I have often wondered if Emmett Till’s mother had a 1950s version of the talk with him before he left Chicago and went to visit her people in Mississippi in 1955. If she didn’t, how she must have wished that she had. If she did, why did he forget her words? If only something she said had stuck in his mind and prevented him from risking and losing his life at the age of 14 for the foolish act of whistling at a white woman, the wife of a white supremacist. His gruesome and brutal death was a significant event in the advancement of the civil rights movement. But if you were to ask me, to ask any mother, to choose between having my sons make history and having them alive and well, you can guess what we would choose. I have asked my children to read Touré’s words. His advice could possibly save their lives sometime. I wish it were otherwise, but we have chosen to live in America, choose it again every day. My husband’s ancestors did not have that choice, and the legacy of that crime will not go away.

Father's Day Reprise

In 2012, I posted the following blog about my father on Father's Day. A lot has changed in eight years, with both of us slower than we were in 2012 and the world going all to hell. But for those of you who have stuck with me and still read, I want to repost this blog entry. Dad is still with me at 91. Lucky me.

Here's the 2012 blog:

When I started my blog a few years back, Dad requested that I respect his privacy and not talk about him on it. I have mentioned him from time to time, but I have consciously left him out of most of my musings. Today he will have to suffer being the subject of my blog entry of the week. After all, he’s 83 years old, and although he’s going strong, I treasure every Father’s Day that I still have him around. If I want to take a minute to appreciate my dad, then I will. I think he can handle it.

One of the greatest gifts that Dad has given to me, his only daughter, is the ability to have a positive attitude. I have received this from him as a result of genetics, of having a get-up-and-go Daddy as a girl growing up, and of watching how he continues to maintain his positive approach as he has aged.

Life is not easy; and it becomes more and more difficult as the years go by and we must assimilate the inevitable challenges, losses, and disappointments that accompany aging. Loved ones pass on. Our bodies don’t work so well anymore. We must reconcile ourselves with the differences between the life we imagined for ourselves in our youth and the life we actually lived and are living. Dad has never been one to dwell on the negative. He wakes up every morning ready for an adventure and eager for a new discovery. He works at not letting things get him down. He looks for the good in other people, delights in the wonders of the natural world, makes opportunities to enjoy the creative efforts of others (in art, writing, song, dance, etc.), uses his extraordinary gift of mathematical ability to contribute to the advancement of his field of inquiry, and generally explores the world. He loves to travel, to meet new people and try new things. He is always hungry to learn. The entire world is his playground. Nothing is beyond the potential realm of his vastly inquisitive mind.

Although I may not be quite as adventurous as my globetrotting father, I share his enthusiasm for life and his desire to make good use of my time here, not to squander my gifts or fail to notice the miracles of everyday. Having a positive attitude has made me resilient. I have been able to cope with worries great and small, obstacles, those losses and disappointments I mentioned already. It is my positive attitude that has made it possible for me to persevere as a writer, recover again and again from rejection, and eventually achieve publication. I try not to have regrets. I try not to hold grudges. I try to let go of anxiety, frustrations, and anger. I try to appreciate the beauty and the wonder. I try to be creative, to find humor, to act from love, and to listen to others when they speak their truest selves.

In some ways, my most fundamental philosophy about life, my way of being in the world, came to me through Dad. I believe that our purpose as human beings is to promote positive energy and that when we engage in positive acts, acts of kindness and compassion, acts of creativity and preservation, we have a positive impact on the universe. Through the gift of a positive attitude, Dad has given me abundant joy. What greater gift from a dad to his daughter? Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Love you.