Once again

Once again, in the space of less than three months, I sense I am in the midst of history.

I haven’t watched the video. The photo alone was horrific enough. Seeing it the first time, I wiped away tears as I stared at the hand casually poised in a pocket and wondered in disbelief, “Who are we? What have we become? Or what have we always been?” It seems perhaps that bright light of truth might be shining once again.

I was born just a couple of months before Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. I was in my early 20s when the Rodney King riots flickered on the television, filling our safe and comfy bedroom with the orange glow of urban fire.

Just a couple years later, I was in a conference room at a large corporation when the verdict of the OJ Simpson trial was announced. The room of about 50 white people was stunned and confused. The one black woman on the fringe tried to catch herself as she cheered. I later tried hard to understand why a guilty man being declared innocent served to help vindicate so many past innocents who had been assumed guilty just by their mere existence.

Over the past several days, I have watched the riots and I have watched the protesters. I have read the stories and the memes and the headlines. I have listened with new ears to the stories and experiences of blacks in America.

This photo and its caption particularly rattled me.

Shola Richards

The man in the photo explains…in a commentary that went viral…that he does not feel safe walking in his suburban California neighborhood without the protection of his young daughter.

“When I’m walking down the street holding my young daughter’s hand and walking my sweet fluffy dog, I’m just a loving dad and pet owner taking a break from the joylessness of crisis homeschooling.

But without them by my side, almost instantly, I morph into a threat in the eyes of some white folks. Instead of being a loving dad to two little girls, unfortunately, all that some people can see is a 6’2” athletically-built black man in a cloth mask who is walking around in a place where he doesn’t belong (even though, I’m still the same guy who just wants to take a walk through his neighborhood). It’s equal parts exhausting and depressing to feel like I can’t walk around outside alone, for fear of being targeted.”

As I read this man’s words, my heart broke as I realized he is absolutely right. Because I have been one of those white folks feeling threatened by nothing but stereotypes, perceptions, and conditioning. And I consider myself open-minded and open-hearted and safe.

But am I? Really?

I am so heartened and encouraged by the confusion and passionate sense of injustice amongst my teen friends. Real, sustained, systemic change will come from them.

But among adults, I am also sensing something of a collective eye opening, a revelation, a million bright lightbulbs truly snapping on for the first time.

THIS moment, THIS injustice, THIS unspeakably bad cop, THIS protest movement…this all feels very different for the first time in my life time. I sense more human-to-human compassion, more insistence to understand, more acknowledgement of a reality that isn’t just rumor anymore.

When discussing with my teen friends what we can do…what CAN we do…we talked about protesting and signing petitions and voting and making phone calls and supporting businesses whose values and demographics are important to you.

But we also talked about the quiet work. The quiet work of being aware. The intentionality of smiling, of relaxing, of being welcoming, of being friendly, of being safe. The call and commitment of being a loving neighbor.

The next day, I read this:

“Say what you need to on social media. Then put down your phone & pick up your life. Not many will see you learning, confessing, repenting, uprooting, re-tooling, forgiving, inviting, empowering. But we will see its fruit. The hidden work is the heart work is the hard work.” ~ Ashlee Eiland

Much hard work is underway.