Finding words

For better or for worse, I’ve rarely been one to say “what I am supposed to say”. Especially if someone tells me to say it. 

I have to think first- to be sure that what I say reflects my own thoughts, ideals, experiences.

Social media peer-pressure would have me posting videos of me playing a piece, or taking two seconds to blithely click a link to superimpose Black Lives Matter over my completely unrelated and ill-corresponding oblivious profile photo.

Sincerity means a great deal to me. And if I feel pressure to say something, it no longer feels sincere. If it isn’t sincere, I don’t think I feel ok posting it. That is important to me. When I look back at my life, I will judge myself based on what I actually DID and who I was- not how I presented myself on social media. Something about my white female privileged self making a Facebook post feels like “Look at me! look how socially aware I am!” I admire and relate to these posts when I see my friends post them, but to sit and post something myself, in my words, I worry that I am riding yet another wave of white “look how ‘good’ I am” privilege. The wave I want to ride is one that actually moves toward change, education, equality, and fairness.

If I am to be sincere, I would say that I am without words. I feel scared and hopeless and tired and unheard. I could post something, but nobody listens to me and nobody cares what I have to say. I sincerely feel this is true. I will continue to vote- as should we all- but this act doesn’t ensure any amount of fairness or equality in the world. 

With sincerity, I cannot watch that video- not out of cowardice, but because I believe George Floyd and every other human being should have dignity in his/her departure from this earthly realm. Watching this heartbreaking moment for him and his family doesn’t help me feel this pain more and it takes that last bit of control and dignity away from him. It just hurts him more- exploits his pain- benefits nobody and makes me feel like a disgusting &$$hole. How is this ok- to replay this video over and over? How is this not a crime in itself? 

I grew up in the racist south. I lived in many places and all were racist in their own “special” way. After moving to North Carolina, there were hushed voices from downstairs- urgent- upset- my parents tried to shield the KKK from me as they marched/“rallied” down Main Street. In their horrifying robes and cone-heads. I was only seven but the sight of the photo in the newspaper made me want to- fantasize about- running up to them and ripping those ridiculous costumes from their faces- revealing their hideousness to the world. I actively and violently hated these people. When I asked for an explanation it came honestly-there was no explanation for that evil. My parents told me that they also did not understand this. To me, they seemed not to want to live in this town. Our family were artists/teachers- it felt as if we didn’t belong here- I had always lived in the south, but this part of the country shoved its racist past in our faces daily- hourly. Racism was flaunted here - I always felt like a visitor, especially as a grew older- looking at these small pitiful racist people from the outside- terrorized by their unpredictability, selective anonymity, their alien self-righteous ignorance was the most terrifying of all- as a child, the threat seemed to me limitless. I lay awake at night many nights fraught with fear. And I was white. Little did I understand then that my own fear was a privilege compared to the fear felt by my black classmates.

I was afraid of some of my white classmates, and their parents, and their grandparents. And their cousins- so many “cousins” in this town… I was afraid of who they were when they went home from school, the veiled politeness they wore, the justifications they hid behind. I was scared for myself and for my friends.

When school bus seats and lockers had KKK (and even worse if you can imagine) sharpie-d all over them, I thought it was some kind of random prank, until I realized this was not only intentional, but done by people I actually knew and thought I was friends with. And that they ACTUALLY WERE in the KKK... My junior high school vice- principal tried to instigate a riot at school by planning a “Pep-rally” and then encouraging white boys to bring knives (my parents told me they suspected he was in the KKK- a suspicion validated by gossip from friends) When a boy I liked said he knew I could never go out with him because he was black and I was white, I was hurt that he could make this assumption - yet felt guilt and shame and paralyzing frustration just the same. He told me this on the last day of school, right before I moved away. I never saw him again, but this stayed with me forever. A lifetime of layered implication and self-reflection, juxtaposed denial and honesty embodied this one encounter.

When I left NC I thought I was leaving that - like leaving a strange planet. But I would soon see that this cancer wasn’t isolated. It wasn’t temporary. I would go on to live in other towns, other states. To see it everywhere with open eyes is a truth I never could have fathomed as a child - and as much as I still cannot fathom it today, here it is.

In all sincerity, I really just don’t have the words. I hope I have the actions, and to know what they are at the right time.

I am moved and encouraged and inspired to see the energy and the voices and peaceful defiance swarming our cities and streets. I know that we must speak up- we must ALL speak up. This is not a new concept to me. We must speak up with the acknowledgment that we must also still learn; looking back at our own reflections with honesty and truth- and we must speak up with sincerity.