I’m here

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

I got a text last night saying coronavirus cases are spiking in the county where I live. I am tired, angry, confused, and sad.

There is a civil rights movement happening. A toppling, dismantling, a reckoning. Hopefully, reform, restructuring, and rebuilding.

Grief. Trauma. And hope.

How are you?

I haven’t written a blog post because I don’t know what I could possibly write that would be helpful.

I thought I needed to be quiet, to allow for listening, paying attention, and bearing witness to the pain and suffering of black men and women in our country right now.

If there was something going on with me however, something horrific, unjust, and lethal and no one else was saying anything but me…It would make it worse, a lot worse. So here is my attempt at not being silent.

I have a lot of listening and learning to do. I also believe in the power and potency of sharing our voices and speaking our truths.

I am sickened and sorry it has taken video footage of men being murdered in the street in order for me to wake up and realize just how frequently unarmed black people are being killed in our country. And how deep and widespread racial injustices still are.

It can feel overwhelming. How do we address and tackle all of this deep seated racism that has been alive in our country for…forever.

My son has been riding his bike a lot recently. I am concerned for his safety because people drive like arseholes not because I am worried about him getting into trouble with the police or because a neighbor has a gun he’s waving at him accusing him of being the one responsible for the recent uptick of car break ins. I am scared of guns.

I used to feel defensive like I know I am white and privileged but I didn’t do anything personally. It’s not my fault. I am not racist. My parent’s weren’t racist.

But that is part of the problem. I did nothing and this is not about me.

I applaud the white women and men speaking up, stumbling, and tripping over their words. Maybe they are making mistakes but at least they are trying. They are not staying neutral. I used to think that was the goal; be nice, be neutral, be friends with everyone, don’t piss anyone off, avoid conflict at any cost. I hate conflict. But again this is another privilege I have been afforded, the indulgence of avoiding conflict.

Man, was I wrong.

I deeply appreciate the back women and men who are talking, writing, sharing, and fighting for justice and equality. And for being patient with us, the white people like me that are trying to be better.

What took me so long? I used to say this to my mom about the Holocaust. I would ask her why didn’t our country act sooner, how did people not know what was happening?

And now I am asking myself this same question.

I am ashamed.

I grew up thinking colorblindness was a good thing. And as a mother to my young children, I didn't talk about color because they didn’t talk about color. They loved their friends, their school celebrates diversity. We talked about religious differences, me being raised Presbyterian and my husband and kids, Jewish but If I brought up race then would that be all they see?, I feared. Isn’t there something to be said for child-like innocence?

Again, I was wrong and am learning that the goal, the real progress is about not being racist but being anti-racist.

I have a long way to go. This country has a long way to go. But I believe in tipping points. During the Me Too Movement, it took many brave women to speak up about the men in power that had used and abused them.

There are many courageous souls who have been speaking up and out for decades about what needs to be done in our schools, our police departments, our hospitals, our communities to battle racism. My hope is more people are listening and more of us are willing and committed to do the work and create change.

It will most likely be uncomfortable and awkward because change often is.

It is also necessary.

I have heard it said that this is a marathon, not a sprint. I will try and do my part to stay the course.

A few weeks ago when I was listening to Ray LaMontagne, a musician I love, who sounds like campfires and maple syrup, I felt pounded like chicken being prepared for piccata.

I am tenderized and I’m here.