It has been a while since I wrote my last blog post, but
today it felt warranted. I never used to consider myself to be a political
person. To be honest, I have had very little faith in the political process since
I can remember caring about it in the slightest. Watching politicians on TV made my stomach hurt; they felt dishonest, sleazy, and power hungry. And if I’m
being completely truthful I still have very little faith in our political system. I
believed in Bernie Sanders because he was unlike any politician I had ever
seen—no slime, no manipulation, no slipperiness. But unfortunately, this is
exactly why he was unable to survive.
Regardless of what I believe about the (dys)functionality of our political system, I do believe that with enough support, politically mobilized
citizens have the capacity to effect change, as has been
seen over time with emancipation, the Civil Rights movement, the Black Panther
movement, LGBTQ+ rights, women’s rights, etc... Politicians I’m not so sure about,
but people, I believe in.
Quick overview: systemic racism is a real problem in our country. Black men
are incarcerated for much lesser crimes and are sentenced to much longer terms than
white men. 1/3 of black men will spend time behind bars during their lifetime. Driving
while black is a legitimate reason to pull someone over in the eyes of many police.
Systems of educational tracking pigeonhole minority students into remedial
classes so that they are unable to gain the same education as their peers, which
denies them access to the same opportunities that privileged white children get like going to college in
preparation to get a good job and have a successful life. White privilege is
real, whether or not you choose to acknowledge it.
My knowledge of these things and my utter disgust with the
events of the past several days (and, to be more accurate, events over
the course of all of the U.S. history), implored me to participate in a Black
Lives Matter peace walk near Prospect Park in Kansas City, Kansas last night. This was something that was in my power to do, and any excuse I
could have come up with to not go—my own fear, my unwillingness to do the
harder thing, etc.—would have been just that, an excuse.
I arrived a little after 9 PM, just as the sun was setting
over Kansas City, expansive, billowy cotton candy clouds hovering over half of the
skyline, separating the darker space of the sky from the lighter. I pulled up to the church where everyone was meeting and walked up to
the group just as they were getting ready to leave. There were about 40 or so
people in our group, while the other group that was probably twice as big set
off in the opposite direction. People held up signs with messages like “Black
Lives Matter!” with Black Power fists for the “a” in black and the “i” in
lives. We walked, and someone with a megaphone in the front of the group began a
series of call and response chants: What do we want? Justice! When do we want it? Now!
If we don’t get it? Shut it down! If
we don’t get it? Shut it down!
When we first began this walk, I felt very out of place.
There were quite a few other white people in the group, but like me, they walked
in silence. I think all of us felt unsure of what form our participation should
take in this situation. Walking was enough, right? Our voices weren’t necessary,
right? I continued to walk silently for several blocks, until something in me shifted
and I decided that no… this was not enough. My voice was needed. I tentatively
started to chant along, my voice cracking a little: No justice, no peace. No
racist police. Black lives matter.
The further we walked, the louder my voice grew until I
literally found myself shouting at the top of my lungs. As we continued to walk
and chant, people drove by in their cars and honked at us in solidarity, sticking
their fists out of windows to form the Black Power symbol. We continued to
chant, Out of your cars and into the streets!
And spectators did get out of their cars, some of them even joining us. Several people stopped to take
photographs, putting their emergency lights on to park in
the middle of the street and snap pictures on smart phones.
Our march led us to a KCPD police station, with all of us
gathering on the steps to continue chanting and, eventually, stopping to share
stories individually. One man relayed that his house was broken into earlier in
the day and that after calling the police to report the burglary, he was put on
hold for 15 minutes before being told that they were simply too busy and couldn’t
get to him right now. Another woman shared that she was a single mother, trying
to raise two children on her own. When she had asked her 11-year-old son if he
wanted to come with her to this peace march, he responded that he felt safer at
home. An eleven-year-old boy said this. An
eleven-year-old black boy feels scared to leave his home to participate in a peaceful
protest with his mother because he fears for his life in a country that should be protecting him. As people
went around the group telling stories, tears welled up in my eyes. I felt more connected to these people
than separate. I felt no fear, only love. And sadness. For what our country has
done to create hateful, fear-based relationships that can really only be
dismantled by meaningful, face-to-face connections. I see lots of shades here tonight,
someone called out over the group. And I want you to know that
I see you, I appreciate that you are here, and this is the answer.
We stood together in solidarity and faced the police monitoring our peaceful protest, shouting, Hands up! Don’t shoot! By the time we got back to the church, our bodies were tired- our feet hurt and we had blisters, we
were exhausted and thirsty- but our eyes were bright and alive.
Out of a society that strives to instill hate and fear and uncertainty and displacement, we created trust and
love and solidarity and truth. We created respect. And this is what all of us
MUST do. This is not a choice, this is our obligation to each other as human
beings.
This is what democracy looks like.
The beginning of the march. |
Hands up; Don't shoot. |
We will not forget. We will be heard. We want justice. |